At  the 
First  Corner 


and  Other  Stories 


H-  B.  Marriott  Watson 


W) 


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AT  THE   FIRST  CORNER 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


Copyrighted  in  the  United  State 
All  rights  reserved 


At   the  First   Corner 

AND    OTHER    STORIES    BY 

I 

H.  B.  MarriottC\Vatson 


AUTHOR    OF 
'DIOGKNBS    OF    LONDON* 


London :  John  Lane,  Vigo  St. 
Boston:    Roberts    Bros.,    1895 


Edinburgh :  T.  and  A.  Constabi.b,  Printew  to  Her  Majesty 


CONTENTS 

PACE 

At  the  First  Corner i 

The  House  of  Shame, 20 

Mr.  Atkinson, 63 

The  Edge  of  the  Precipice, 87 

In  the  Basement, 106 

An  Ordeal  of  Three, 119 

The  Portrait  in  the  Inn 132 

Akbar  Ali's  Courtyard, 159 

The  Last  of  Blackbeard 196 


AT   THE   FIRST   CORNER 

MiLLlCENT  stood  awhile  with  her  hand  on  the 
door.  Now  that  she  had  come  so  far  she  was 
disposed  to  turn  back.  A  medley  of  superficial 
sensations  swarmed  within  her.  She  flushed 
warm,  and  then  a  quick  chill  took  her ;  excite- 
ment fluttered  in  her  heart ;  she  felt  the  great 
stream  of  light  from  the  fanlight  in  the  hall 
play  over  her  face  pleasantly ;  and  at  the  last 
arose  a  sudden  fear.  A  certain  feeling  of 
resentment  too  separated  itself  from  among 
the  conflicting  emotions,  and  was  individualised 
distinctly  for  a  moment.  She  wondered  if  she 
had  not  better  put  off  the  task  until  she  were 
more  in  her  own  control ;  but  to  this  mood 
succeeded  the  thought  that  she  must  bring  the 
news  sometime,  and  that  concealment  would 
fret  her.    She  opened  the  door  and  went  in. 

Rossiter  looked  up  as  the  lock  snapped,  and 
half- turning  in  his  chair  put  his  arms  over  his 
A 


2     AT    THE    FIRST    CORNER 

head  towards  her.  If  it  were  an  invitation  she 
ignored  it,  standing  by  him  in  silence.  He 
smiled  in  her  face. 

'  Finished  all  your  work,  little  woman  ? '  he 
asked,  stretching  himself.  *  Taking  a  spell  ? 
You  have  interrupted  a  most  desultory  piece 
of  verse.  I  have  no  inspiration  this  morning. 
I  can't  get  the  last  two  lines  right.  The  first 
verse  is  decent. 

The  grey  clouds  gathered  in  the  skies, 

And  loud  the  west  wind  blew 
With  gusty  sobs  and  long-drawn  sighs, 

And  all  for  me  and  you. 
It  wailed  round  roof  and  tree,  my  dear  ; 

Too  well  its  word  I  knew — 
Farewell  'twixt  you  and  me,  my  dear, 

Farewell  'twixt  me  and  you. 

The  feeling  I  want  to  get  is  that  all  things 
really  shadowed  my  trouble,  and  were  not,  what 
they  were  as  a  matter  of  fact,  ordinary  natural 
phenomena.     But  I  can't  phrase  it' 

'  What  was  your  trouble  ? '  she  asked. 

'  Parting,  dear — the  sudden  knowledge  of  a 
collapse,  the  most  tragic  accident  in  life.  Isn't 
that  so  ? '  She  leaned  over  him  and  looked  at 
the  paper  on  which  he  had  been  writing ;  he 
put  up  a  hand  and  caught  hold  of  her  arm. 


AT    THE    FIRST    CORNER      3 

She  rested  her  chin  upon  his  head  in  an  absent 
manner. 

*  I  suppose  so,'  she  said  listlessly,  *  I  Ve  not 
gone  through  it' 

'  Nor  have  I,  Milly.  But  can't  you  imagine 
it?  Don't  you  know  what  it  would  be  if  we 
were  to  part  ? ' 

'  Oh,  yes.' 

He  looked  at  her  inquiringly,  and  his  eyes 
fell.  A  tiny  sigh  escaped  him,  and  for  an 
instant  his  face  was  wried  with  a  clutch  of 
pain.  '  I  wonder  what  you  would  forgive,'  he 
said.  '  I  wonder  if  your  love  is  strong  enough 
to  forgive  much.' 

'You  know  that  I  am  not  very  jealous  by 
nature.' 

He  made  an  angry  movement. 

'  Pah !  I  don't  mean  sordid  things  like  that. 
You  hurt  me.  I  should  never  ask  you  to 
forgive  that.  Good  God,  what  do  you  mean 
by  saying  you  're  not  jealous  ?  If  you  're  not, 
you  can't  care  a  rap — you — Milly,  you  make 
me  miserable,' 

She  laughed  softly.  '  I  'm  sorry,  my  dear 
boy.  You  know  I  *m  fond  of  you.  Wasn't  it 
proof  enough  when   I  gave  up  my  own  good 


4     AT    THE    FIRST    CORNER 

name   for  you  ?      It  was  very  injudicious,   I 
suppose.' 

*  You  don't  regret  it  ? '  he  asked  anxiously. 

'  I  never  regretted  it ;  no,'  she  returned  slowly ; 
« but ' 

*  What  ?  '  he  said  under  his  breath. 

*  Oh,  nothing,'  she  exclaimed  with  some  im- 
patience ;  '  nothing,  nothing.' 

She  moved  away.  Once  more  the  fear  re- 
turned to  her,  and  the  little  cloud  of  anger 
gathered  in  her  heart.  She  did  not  know  how 
to  tell  him,  and  yet  she  had  even  a  desire  to 
hurt  him  in  the  telling.  He  watched  her  with 
distressed  eyes. 

'  Milly,'  he  pleaded ;  *  you  did  not  mind 
leaving  your  uncle  and  coming  to  me  ? ' 

'  It  was  necessary,  I  suppose,  since  I  was  so 
impulsive.  I  wasn't  wise  enough  to  wait  for 
your  wife's  death ;  and  apparently  I  should  be 
waiting  still' 

He  winced  as  though  a  hand  had  struck  him. 

*  Would  you  have  sooner  waited  ? '  he  asked 
in  tones  barely  audible.  She  did  not  answer. 
*  Milly,  are  you  sorry  you  did  not  wait  ? '  he 
repeated. 

'Oh,  what  is  the  use  of  talking?      I  don't 


AT    THE    FIRST    CORNER     5 

know.  It's  done  with  now,  and  we  can't  go 
back.' 

He  laid  down  his  pen,  and  the  hand  that 
held  it  was  trembling. 

'  I  always  was  selfish,'  he  said  sadly. 

'  No,  it  was  not  your  fault.  It  was  mine.  I 
was  a  fool  in  impulse.  What  sort  of  creature 
was  I  five  years  ago  ? ' 

'  You  were  very  charming,'  he  answered 
softly. 

'  Did  you  like  me  better  then  than  now  ? ' 

'  Now,  now — ten  thousand  times  now,'  he  said. 
And  rising  suddenly,  he  put  his  arms  round 
her.  She  smiled,  and  leaned  her  face  against 
his. 

*  That  is  flattering  to  a  woman — and  I  think 
I  've  developed  my  vanity  lately.' 

'  Is  the  life  too  dull  for  you,  dear  ?  Do  you 
want  more  friends  ?  I  've  sometimes  fancied  it 
must  be.' 

'  I  don't  know.  Do  I  ?  I  don't  think  so.  I 
don't  know.    Perhaps  I  do.' 

She  answered  vacantly.  She  did  not  know ; 
she  was  conscious  merely  of  unrest  and  that 
growing  resentment. 

'  I  hate  to  be  shackled,'  she  burst  out. 


6     AT    THE    FIRST    CORNER 

'Darling,'  he  said  in  dismay,  'you  are  not 
shackled.  You  are  not  bound  to  me,  even  as 
tightly  as  I  could  wish  you  bound.' 

*  I  am,  I  am,'  she  cried,  and  stamped  her  foot 
with  sudden  passion. 

He  stood  silent,  discomfited. 

'  Are  you  ill,  dear  ? '  he  asked  tenderly. 

'  Yes,  yes,'  she  murmured. 

•What  is  it?  A  headache?  Do  lie  down, 
and  I  '11  get  you  some  sal  volatile.' 

She  laughed  somewhat  harshly,  *  Oh,  it 's  not 
going  to  be  cured  by  sal  volatile.  It's  more 
serious  than  that,  much  more  damnable.  I 
hate  it,'  she  cried.  *  I  hate  it,'  and  a  sob  rose  in 
her  throat. 

His  eyes  dilated  with  sudden  understanding  ; 
the  lines  of  his  mouth  tightened,  and  then  as 
swiftly  relaxed  ;  a  shade  of  horror  flitted  across 
his  face. 

'Is  it  so ? '  he  whispered.  '  Is  it  really  so, 
dear  ? '  She  flamed  red  ;  her  eyes  flashed  with 
some  evil  temper.  '  It  is  you  ;  it  is  you  who 
have  done  this,'  she  said  ;  and  with  a  cry  half 
of  passion  and  half  of  pain,  she  fled  from  the 
room.  Rossiter  remained  with  his  eyes  upon 
the  floor,  the   look   of  disquiet   twisting    his 


AT    THE    FIRST    CORNER     7 

handsome  features  askew.  Then  he  sat  down 
in  his  chair  and  picked  up  his  pen. 

*  I  saw  the  sobbing  river  flow, 

I  saw  the  sweeping  rain  ; 
The  wet  vine,  tossing  to  and  fro, 

Flapped  loose  upon  the  pane. 
I  looked  out  o'er  the  lea,  my  dear. 

And  all  too  well  I  knew 
They  wept  for  you  and  me,  my  dear, 

They  wept  for  me  and  you.' 

He  hid  his  face  in  the  hollows  of  his  hands  and 
sighed.  Raising  himself  he  looked  at  his  verses, 
but  it  was  not  the  rhymes  that  held  his  attention. 
From  the  experiments  upon  the  page  one  word 
leapt  out  and  struck  him  fiercely,  as  it  had  been 
a  flash  of  lightning.  '  Cheat '  swam  in  his  vision 
and  sounded  in  his  ears.  The  room  buzzed 
with  it.  But  at  this  moment,  with  the  echoes 
of  her  voice  still  calling  from  the  corners,  the 
pain  of  his  humiliation  was  become  twofold. 
All  these  years  he  had  locked  the  sullen  spectre 
in  his  heart,  from  which  it  had  escaped  at 
intervals  to  gibe  and  mock  at  him.  He  had 
endured  the  agony  of  one  fear  these  five  years 
— the  fear  of  shame,  and  shame  alone  ;  and  now 
must  there  be  added  also  the  horror  of  despair  ? 
He  had  been  afraid  that  she  should  know  with 


8     AT    THE    FIRST    CORNER 

how  little  love  he  had  begun,  how  slight  a  risk 
he  had  taken,  how  lightly  he  had  regarded  her. 
But  if  she  had  begun  to  grow  cold,  if  the 
temper  of  her  affection  had  altered,  he  must 
take  a  new  burden  upon  him.  Surely  she 
could  not  have  ceased  to  love  him  ;  surely  this 
caprice  of  anger,  of  indifference,  merely  issued 
from  the  derangement  of  her  nerves,  from  a 
temporary  indisposition. 

Since  he  had  come  to  love  her  and  seen 
thereby  the  monstrous  disloyalty  of  his  sin, 
Rossiter  had  never  denied  to  himself  the  gross- 
ness  of  his  selfish  nature.  She  was  but  twenty 
when  he  had  tempted  her — a  wayward  and 
impulsive  girl  with  quick  instincts  of  affection. 
He  had  played  the  coward  when  she  deemed 
him  to  be  enacting  the  hero.  Her  face  attracted 
him,  her  voice  enchanted  him  ;  but  the  irre- 
vocability of  marriage  frightened  him.  He  was 
by  nature  too  indulgent  to  his  own  whims  to 
withdraw  from  the  sphere  of  her  fascinations ; 
and  when  it  became  clear  that  she  had  gone 
headlong  into  a  passionate  affection  for  him,  he 
sealed  up  his  conscience  and  succumbed.  He 
had  invented  the  fiction  of  an  estranged  wife ; 
she  pitied  him,  she  wept  for  him.     His  life,  he 


AT    THE    FIRST    CORNER      9 

had  said,  was  at  its  close.  She  threw  herself 
upon  him,  and  cried  out  against  his  sentence. 
The  narrow  bonds  of  social  convention  were 
chains  too  weak  to  bind  her.  She  had  no  fears, 
no  doubts  ;  she  would  have  no  remorse.  And 
with  the  lie  black  and  stark  between  them  they 
two  embarked  upon  a  hazardous  new  fortune. 

Here  in  his  abasement,  knowing  how  full  and 
irretrievable  was  his  love  for  her,  the  man  could 
find  one  plea  only  to  abate  his  guilt.  She  had 
come  with  a  reputation  worn  by  gossip — gossip 
since  proved  foul  and  false ;  he  had  regarded 
her  only  as  lightly  as  he  had  thought  she  might 
ask  to  be  regarded.  But  there  was  no  hope  of 
pardon  in  this ;  there  was  no  forgiveness  even 
from  himself. 

He  should  have  to  tell  her  the  story  now. 
The  terror  of  that  necessity  laid  cold  hands  upon 
his  heart.  For  four  years  shame  had  kept  him 
from  the  confession.  And  now  must  he  speak 
with  the  new  danger  of  her  growing  coldness  ? 
She  would  still  be  tied  to  him,  were  he  even 
now  to  turn  the  key  upon  his  secret.  The  news 
she  had  broken  to  him  that  morning  would  link 
them  together  with  stronger  chains.  Should  he 
be  silent  the  wrong  he  had  done  her  and  her 


10    AT    THE    FIRST    CORNER 

child  would  lie  upon  his  conscience  only. 
Would  it  be  best?  He  rose  and  paced  the 
room.  Something  moved  on  the  floor  overhead  ; 
his  heart  wept  at  the  sound  of  her.  Now  that 
the  fact  faced  him  so  grimly,  new  currents  of 
tenderness  ran  through  him.  He  wanted  her  as 
his  wife.  All  the  bonds  that  society  or  conven- 
tion or  the  sacred  rites  of  religion  could  offer, 
he  desired  to  have  secured  upon  them  both. 
Shame  and  fear  must  not  stand  between  her 
and  her  justification.  If  he  had  been  a  coward 
once,  he  must  to-day  enact  a  newer,  better  part. 
As  he  turned  round  in  his  chair,  full  of  a 
sudden  resolution,  his  glance  crossed  the  blue- 
lined  paper  on  which  he  had  been  scribbling. 
The  uncompleted  verse  met  his  eye  and  solicited 
his  attention — 

'  The  voice  of  rain  and  wind  and  stream 

Foretold  our  summer's  fall, 
Forecast  the  breaking  of  the  dream 

The  ruined  festival. 
Oh,  loud  I  heard  the  cold  rain  weep, 

The  mad  wind  cry  and  call ; ' 

He  stopped,  and  of  a  sudden  the  verse  completed 
itself.     He  seized  his  pen  and  wrote — 

*  But  my  heart's  silence,  dull  and  deep, 
Was  louder  than  them  all.' 


AT    THE    FIRST    CORNER     ii 

He  dropped  the  pen,  and  sat  staring  at  the 
lines.  Then  rising,  he  walked  across  the  room. 
The  sunlight  struck  through  the  window  and 
fell  in  patches  on  the  carpet.  As  he  went  the 
spectre  of  his  old  sin  stretched  itself  and 
preceded  him,  gibbering,  to  the  door.  He 
mounted  the  staircase,  dully,  a  formless  terror 
gnawing  at  his  heart. 

Millicent  locked  the  door  of  her  room  and 
flung  herself  upon  the  bed.  She  wept  at  the 
indignity  that  was  still  in  her  thoughts ;  she 
was  angry  with  a  resentment  quite  passionate. 
But  now  and  then  a  strange  curiosity  fluttered 
in  her  heart.  She  hardly  knew  herself  for  the 
Millicent  of  yesterday ;  she  was  so  torn  with 
her  emotions.  They  came  and  went  with  the 
speed  of  pulsations.  Ere  this  horrible  revelation 
she  had  not  been  conscious  of  any  change  in 
her  attitude  towards  Rossiter.  And  now, 
though  the  consciousness  was  thrust  upon  her, 
she  did  not  moralise  upon  it ;  she  did  not  even 
pause  to  inquire  whether  it  were  transient  or 
something  more  fundamental.  She  was  not  a 
woman  of  that  kind ;  she  had  spent  all  her  life 
in  little  runs  and  gushes  of  impulse,  taken 
forth-right  and  forgotten,  times  out  of  number. 


12    AT    THE    FIRST    CORNER 

It  was  in  one  of  these  reckless  fits  of  abandon- 
ment that  she  had  come  to  Rossiter ;  and  that 
she  had  not  left  him  was  only  because  she  had 
as  yet  felt  no  passion  contrary  to  the  connection. 
She  had  fallen  back  upon  a  genuine  friendliness 
for  him ;  it  was  not  the  mad  emotion,  to  the 
delusion  of  which  she  had  yielded  in  the  first 
instance,  but  it  was  an  affection  which  had 
worn  well  for  five  years,  though  it  would  fare 
ill  under  a  strain.  She  did  not  know  she  had 
changed  ;  at  no  point  in  her  life  could  she  have 
put  her  finger  on  a  day  in  which  she  had 
awakened  to  the  shallowness  of  her  feeling  for 
him.  She  did  not  realise  it  now.  She  merely 
lay  upon  the  bed  with  all  the  indolence  of  an 
animal,  while  her  consciousness  was  absorbed 
in  the  sensations  of  her  mood. 

Presently  she  arose  and  went  to  the  window. 
Down  below  the  streets  streamed  with  cabs  and 
carriages,  and  the  sunlight  dashed  them  with 
colour.  Tranquilly  she  leaned  her  face  against 
the  pane  and  looked  out.  There  they  went, 
on  and  on  incessantly,  day  by  day,  week  by 
week.  How  gruesome  to  settle  into  this  dead 
monotony !  While  the  fools  might  be  doing 
something  new  each  day,  they  kept  their  noses 


AT    THE    FIRST    CORNER     13 

to  the  earth  and  crept  along  between  blinkers 
on  the  same  old  course,  year  in,  year  out.  The 
insularity  and  triviality  of  human  life  were 
ridiculous.  She  wondered  vaguely  why  she 
was  only  now  finding  out  the  tiresomeness  of 
her  existence.  The  thought  of  maternity  re- 
pelled her.  She  winced  at  the  approach  of 
those  unknown  terrors.  Her  disgust  was 
lightened  by  no  sentiment  for  Rossiter.  When 
she  lost  the  sense  of  frightened  anger,  it  was 
with  mere  inquisitiveness  that  she  dwelt  upon 
the  future. 

It  was  only  when  he  had  knocked  twice  that 
she  opened  the  door  to  him ;  which  done,  she 
straightway  resumed  her  place  at  the  window, 
tapping  her  restless  fingers  on  the  pane.  She 
knew  why  he  had  come  ;  his  heart  was  weltering 
in  pity,  and  he  would  put  his  arms  about  her 
and  offer  consolation  in  soft  tones.  In  her 
imagination  she  could  see  him  opening  his 
mouth,  his  eyes  glistening  with  tenderness. 
There  was  something  too  humble  and  unmanly 
in  his  affection.  Bah!  She  shrugged  her 
shoulders  with  distaste. 

Rossiter  stood  halfway  to  her ;  the  poise  of 
her  head,  the  old  familiar  graces  which  had 


H    AT    THE    FIRST    CORNER 

grown  to  be  a  part  of  his  life,  touched  him  with 
a  sense  of  longing,  even  also  with  a  sense  of 
fear.  When  he  spoke,  the  harshness  of  his 
voice  made  her  turn  round  in  surprise. 

'  Milly,  we  must  be  married,'  he  said. 

She  stared  at  him.  *  Oh,  yes '  she  said 
indififerently,  after  a  pause,  '  when  it  is  possible.' 

'  It  is  possible  now,'  he  replied  abruptly. 

'What  on  earth  do  you  mean?'  she  asked. 
*  Are  any  more  tragedies  going  ? ' 

She  was  leaving  the  window  and  making 
for  the  arm-chair,  when  he  took  her  hand  in 
his. 

'Oh,  let  me  alone,  please,'  she  said  im- 
patiently. 

She  looked  into  his  eyes,  but  did  not  see 
there  what  she  had  expected.  They  held  no 
pity  for  her,  no  tender  light  shone  in  them  ; 
only  the  shadows  of  fear  and  shame  were  there. 
He  patted  her  hand  mechanically. 

'  Do  you  remember  just  now  that  I  asked  you 
how  much  you  could  forgive?'  he  asked  in  a 
curious  monotone.  '  The  time  has  come  for  me 
to  see.  I  do  not  expect  you  to  forgive  ;  I  only 
hope  for  you  to  love  me  still.  Perhaps  even 
that  is  too  much.     I  don't  know.' 


AT    THE    FIRST    CORNER     15 

She  withdrew  her  hand,  looking  at  him.  He 
interested  her.     She  sat  down  in  the  chair, 

'  For  goodness'  sake,  get  on,'  she  said.  '  What 
has  happened  ? ' 

*  I  want  you  to  be  married  to  me,  to-morrow.' 

'  Then  your  wife '  she  broke  out     '  She  is 

dead?' 

'  No,'  he  answered  very  softly.  *  I  have  never 
had  any  wife,  but  you.' 

The  silence  was  broken  only  by  the  creaking 
of  the  chair.  He  lifted  his  gaze  from  the 
ground,  and  met  hers.  Before  it,  he  quivered 
and  winced.  Two  large  fires  flashed  out  and 
scorched  into  his  very  soul. 

'  You  never  had  a  wife  ? '  she  asked  in  a  slow 
whisper.  He  made  no  reply.  'Let  me  hear 
what  it  means,'  she  went  on  in  the  same  tense 
voice.     *  I  don't  suppose  I  understand.' 

He  leaned  against  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and 
held  his  averted  face  between  his  hands. 

'  I  deceived  you.  I  was  a  selfish  coward.  I 
did  not  think  I  loved  you,  and  I  allowed  you 
to  come  to  me  under  the  supposition  that  I 
could  not  marry  you.'  She  breathed  very  hard. 
'  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,'  he  continued. 
'  Within  the  year  I  found  out  my  passionate 


i6     AT    THE    FIRST    CORNER 

love  for  you,  and  the  impossibility  of  telling 
you  of  my  crime.' 

'  Why  do  you  tell  me  now  ? '  she  asked. 

The  blood  was  rising  in  her  body  ;  it  seemed 
to  ride  round  and  round  in  her  head,  constraining 
her  slowly  and  surely  to  a  cruel  deed. 

*  I  have  told  you  because  it  has  become 
necessary  that  we  should  be  married.' 

'Why?' 

For  the  first  time  he  looked  up  in  astonish- 
ment. Her  eyes  still  dwelt  upon  him,  burning 
bright. 

'The  change — what  you  said  just  now — the 
child ,'  he  stammered. 

She  threw  herself  back  in  her  chair,  and 
laughed  wildly  and  loudly. 

'  Is  that  all  ?  My  God,  is  that  all  ?  The 
mere  reflection  of  a  possible  infant's  possible 
legitimacy  ?  You  have  disturbed  the  secret  of 
years  for  that !  It  was  quite  needless,  I  assure 
you.' 

All  the  time  the  thought  was  repeating  itself 
in  her  mind,  '  How  can  I  hurt  him  most  ? 
What  can  I  do  or  say  to  hurt  him?'  She 
groped  about  for  means ;  she  was  talking  at 
random,  without  a  perception   that  her  voice 


AT    THE    FIRST    CORNER     17 

and  words  were  stabbing  him,  feeling  only  that 
she  must  do  and  say  more.  » 

*  I  have  no  word  of  protest  to  say,'  he  said 
quietly.  '  You  know  I  love  you.  I  only  wish 
to  know  if  you  still  can  love  me  after  this  ? ' 

'  Love  you ! '  she  replied,  in  a  deliberate 
voice.  '  It  makes  no  difference  in  my  affection 
for  you.  Of  course  I  am  angry  at  the  deception. 
It  was,  as  you  say,  selfish  and  cowardly.  But 
you  have,  no  doubt,  suffered  for  it.  I  shall  get 
over  my  indignation.  Oh  no,  there  is  no  change 
in  my  affection.' 

His  eyes  brightened  ;  he  straightened  himself 
from  his  bowed  posture,  and  a  sigh  of  relief 
escaped  him.     He  put  out  a  hand  to  her. 

*  Milly,  you — are — very  good  to  me,'  he  said 
brokenly ; '  I  will  leave  you  now,  and  to-morrow 
we  can  be  married.' 

'No.' 

He  stopped  at  the  sharpness  of  his  negative. 
She  leaned  forward  in  her  chair,  her  elbows 
upon  her  knees,  fixing  him  with  feverish  eyes. 
*  You  had  better  hear  my  story,  as  I  have  heard 
yours.  When  I  was  a  girl,  an  impulsive  fool,  I 
imagined  myself  into  a  passion  for  you.  I  left 
my  home  for  the  fancy,  being  a  fool ;  and  like  a 
B 


i8     AT    THE    FIRST    CORNER 

fool  I  lived  on  with  you  for  five  years.  This 
morning  I  discovered  my  mistake.  I  might 
have  discovered  it  before  if  I  had  been  given  to 
thinking.  I  might  have  known  what  was  the 
explanation  of  the  boredom  I  endured,  of  the 
restlessness,  of  the  indifferent  kindliness  I  had 
for  you.  But  I  am  not  one  who  thinks  ;  I  only 
feel.  And  when  I  had  made  one  accursed 
discovery  this  morning,  I  made  another  more 
pleasant.  It  was  that  I  am  tired  of  you.' 
He  gave  a  cry  of  pain. 

*  I  will  not  marry  you.' 

'  For  God's  sake,  Milly '  he  began. 

*  I  am  not  angry — I  am  only  awake,'  she  said. 
'  You  have  given  me  the  opportunity.  I  should 
have  been  foolishly  blind  enough  to  stay  with 
you  if  you  had  not  told  me  this.  I  am  glad 
you  did.     It  destroys  all  the  ties  between  us.' 

'  But  the  child  ? '  said  Rossiter,  in  his  whisper. 

*  Bah ! '  she  said.  '  That 's  the  opportunity. 
It  is  that  that  has  brought  me  to  my  senses. 
Though  I  hate  it,  I  shall  owe  it  a  debt  of 
gratitude.' 

She  regarded  him  triumphantly — her  face 
glowing,  her  eyes  bright,  her  bosom  heaving. 
He  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  his  chin 


AT    THE    FIRST    CORNER     19 

fallen   upon    his    breast,   his   fingers    pressing 
against  his  heart 

*  I  will  go,*  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

The  door  closed  behind  him.  With  a  leap 
she  was  on  her  feet,  and  pacing  the  room  with 
long  strides  of  exultation.  '  Free,'  she  said  ; 
'  free  from  now  ! '  She  looked  out  on  the  street, 
where  the  traffic  roared, '  Free,  free,  free !  Free 
to  go  anywhere,  be  any  one,  do  anything!' 
The  portals  of  her  prison  swung  open,  and  the 
world  stretched  before  her. 

Suddenly,  and  in  the  midst  of  her  song  of 
triumph,  she  paused.  A  fear  thrilled  in  her 
bosom.  A  spasm  of  pain,  of  hatred,  distorted 
her  face.  With  a  short  fierce  cry,  she  flung 
herself  at  full  length  upon  the  bed ;  biting 
the  pillows  with  her  teeth,  and  clutching  the 
blankets,  she  rocked  to  and  fro. 

*  It  shall  not  be,'  she  said.  *  No  ;  it  shall  not 
be!' 


THE    HOUSE   OF    SHAME 

There  was  no  immediate  response  to  his  knock, 
and,  ere  he  rapped  again,  Farrell  turned  stupidly 
and  took  in  a  vision  of  the  street.  The  morning 
sunshine  streamed  on  Piccadilly ;  a  snap  of  air 
shook  the  tree-tops  in  the  Park ;  and  beyond 
the  greensward  sparkled  with  dew.  The  traffic 
roared  along  the  roadway,  but  the  cabs  upon 
the  stand  rode  like  ships  at  anchor  on  a  windless 
ocean.  Below  him  flowed  the  tide  of  passengers. 
The  dispassion  of  that  drifting  scene  affected 
him  by  contrast  with  his  own  warm  flood  of 
emotions ;  the  picture — the  trees,  the  sunlight 
and  the  roar — imprinted  itself  sharply  upon  his 
brain.  His  glance  flitted  among  the  faces,  and 
wandered  finally  to  the  angle  of  the  crossway, 
by  which  his  cab  was  sauntering  leisurely. 
With  a  shudder  he  wheeled  face-about  to  the 
door,  and  raised  the  clapper.  For  a  moment 
yet  he  stood  in  hesitation.    The  current  of  his 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME    21 

thoughts  ran  like  a  mill-race,  and  a  hundred 
discomforting  impressions  flowed  together.  The 
house  lay  so  quiet ;  the  sunlight  struck  the 
window-panes  with  a  lively  and  discordant 
glare.  He  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and 
withdrew  a  latch-key,  twiddling  it  restlessly 
between  his  fingers.  With  a  thrust  and  a 
twist  the  door  would  slip  softly  open,  and  he 
might  enter  unobserved.  He  entertained  the 
impulse  but  a  moment.  He  dared  not  enter  in 
that  nocturnal  fashion  ;  he  would  prefer  ad- 
mittance publicly,  in  the  eye  of  all,  as  one  with 
nothing  to  conceal,  with  no  black  shame  upon 
him.  His  return  should  be  ordinary,  matter-of- 
fact  ;  he  would  choose  that  Jackson  should  see 
him  cool  and  unperturbed.  In  some  way,  too, 
he  vaguely  hoped  to  cajole  his  memory,  and 
ensnare  his  willing  mind  into  a  belief  that 
nothing  unusual  had  happened. 

He  knocked  with  a  loud  clatter  ;  feet  sounded 
in  the  hall,  and  the  door  fell  open.  Jackson 
looked  at  him  with  no  appearance  of  surprise. 

*  Good  morning,  Jackson,'  he  said,  kicking  his 
feet  against  the  step.  He  entered,  and  laid  his 
umbrella  in  the  stand.  '  Is  your  mistress  up 
yet  ? '  he  asked. 


22    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

'  Yes,  sir/  said  the  servant  placidly ;  '  she 's  in 
the  morning-room,  sir,  I  think.' 

There  was  no  emotion  in  the  man's  voice; 
his  face  wore  no  aspect  of  suspicion  or  inquiry, 
and  somehow  Parrel  1  felt  already  relieved.  To- 
day was  as  yesterday,  unmarked  by  any  grave 
event. 

*  Ah ! '  he  said,  and  passed  down  the  hall. 
At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  paused  again,  with 
a  pretence  of  dusting  something  from  his  coat, 
and  winced  at  the  white  gleam  of  his  dress- 
shirt.  Nothing  stirred  in  the  house  save  a 
maid  brushing  overhead,  and  for  a  while  he 
lingered.  He  still  shrank  from  encountering 
his  wife,  and  there  was  his  room  for  refuge 
until  he  had  put  on  a  quieter  habit  of  mind. 
His  clothes  damned  him  so  loudly  that  all  the 
world  must  guess  at  a  glance.  And  then  again 
the  man  resumed  his  manliness ;  he  would  not 
browbeat  himself  for  the  mere  knowledge  of  his 
own  shame  ;  and,  passing  rapidly  along  the  hall, 
he  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  morning-room. 

A  woman  rose  on  his  entrance,  with  a  happy 
little  cry. 

•  George ! '  she  said.  *  Dear  George,  I  'm  so 
glad.' 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME     23 

She  put  up  her  arms  and  lifted  her  face  to 
him.  Farrell  shivered  ;  the  invitation  repelled 
him  ;  in  the  moment  of  that  innocent  welcome 
the  horror  of  his  sin  rose  foul  before  him.  He 
touched  her  lightly  on  the  cheek  and  withdrew 
a  little  distance. 

*  I  'm  not  a  nice  object,  Letty,'  he  faltered, 
'  see  what  a  mess  the  beastly  mud  has  made  of 
me.  And  look  at  my  fine  dress-clothes.'  He 
laughed  with  constraint.  *  You  'd  think  I  lived 
in  them.' 

'  O  dearest,  I  was  so  disappointed  ! '  said  the 
girl.  '  I  sat  up  ever  so  late  for  you.  But  I  was 
so  tired.  I  'm  always  tired  now.  And  at  last 
I  yawned  myself  to  sleep.  Wherever  have  you 
been?' 

The  colour  flickered  in  Farrell's  face,  and  his 
fingers  trembled  on  the  table. 

'  Oh,  I  couldn't  get  away  from  Fowler's,  you 
know.  Went  there  after  the  club,  and  lost  my 
train  like  a  fool.' 

His  uneasy  eyes  rose  furtively  to  her  face. 
He  was  invested  by  morbid  suspicions,  sus- 
picions of  her  suspicion ;  but  the  girl's  gaze 
rested  frankly  upon  him,  and  she  smiled 
pleasantly. 


24    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

'  'That  dreadful  club!  You  shan't  go  there 
again  for  a  week,  darling.  I  'm  so  glad  you  've 
come.  I  was  nearly  being  very  frightened  about 
you.  I  Ve  been  so  lonely.'  She  took  him  by 
the  arm.  *  Poor  dear,  and  you  had  to  come  all 
through  London  with  those  things  on.  Didn't 
people  stare  ? ' 

'I  will  change  them,'  he  said  abruptly,  and 
turned  to  leave. 

'What!'  she  said  archly.  'Would  you  go 
without — and  I  haven't  seen  you  for  so  long.' 
She  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

'For  God's  sake No,  no,  Letty,  don't 

touch  me,'  he  broke  out  harshly. 

The  girl's  lips  parted,  and  a  look  of  pain 
started  into  her  face. 

'  I  meant,'  he  explained  quickly,  *  I  am  so 
very  dirty,  dear ;  you  'd  soil  your  pretty  frock.' 

*  Silly ! '  she  returned  smiling, '  and  it  isn't  a 
pretty  frock.  I  can't  wear  pretty  frocks  any 
longer,'  she  added  mournfully. 

He  dropped  his  eyes  before  the  flush  that 
sprang  into  her  cheeks,  and  left  the  room 
hurriedly. 

His  shame  followed  him  about  all  day, 
dogging    him   like  a  shadow.      It   lurked    in 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME     25 

corners  and  leaped  out  upon  him.  Sometimes  ■ 
it  crept  away  and  hovered  in  the  remoter  dis- 
tance ;  he  had  almost  forgotten  its  attendance  ; 
and  then  in  the  thick  of  his  laughing  con- 
versation it  fell  upon  him  black  once  more. 
It  skulked  ever  within  call,  dwindled  at  times, 
grey  and  insignificant.  When  he  stopped  to 
exchange  a  sentence  in  the  street,  it  slid  away  ; 
he  moved  on  solitary,  and  it  ran  out  before  him, 
dark  and  portentous.  Remorse  bit  deep  into 
him,  remorse  and  a  certain  fear  of  discovery. 
The  hours  with  his  wife  were  filled  with  uneasy 
thoughts,  and  he  would  fain  have  variegated 
the  cheerless  monotony  of  his  conscience  by 
adding  a  guest  to  his  dinner-table.  But  from 
this  course  he  was  deterred  by  delicacy ;  for,  at 
his  suggestion,  Letty  looked  at  him,  winced  a 
little,  smiled  ever  so  faintly,  and,  with  an  in- 
effable expression  of  tender  embarrassment, 
drew  her  morning-gown  closer  round  her  body. 
He  could  not  press  the  indignity  upon  her 
young  and  sensitive  mind. 

But  the  fall  of  night,  which  he  had  so  dreaded, 
brought  him  a  change  of  mood.  The  table  was 
stocked  with  the  fruits  of  a  rare  intelligence ; 
the  plate  shone  with  the  fine  linen  ;  and  all  the 


26    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

comforts  waited  upon  his  appetite.  It  was  no 
gross  content  that  overtook  him,  but  the  satis- 
faction of  a  body  gently  appeased.  His  sin  had 
faded  wonderfully  into  the  distance,  had  grown 
colder,  and  no  longer  burned  intolerably  upon  his 
conscience.  He  found  himself  at  times  regard- 
ing it  with  reluctant  equanimity.  He  stared 
at  it  with  the  eyes  of  a  judicial  stranger.  Men 
were  so  wide  apart  from  women ;  they  were 
ruled  by  another  code  of  morals.  If  this  were 
a  pity,  it  fell  at  least  of  their  nature  and  their 
history.  Was  not  this  the  prime  lesson  science 
had  taught  the  world?  But  still  the  shame 
flickered  up  before  him  ;  he  could  watch  its 
appearances  more  calmly,  could  reason  and 
debate  of  it,  but  it  was  still  impertinently 
persistent.  And  yet  he  was  more  certain  of 
himself.  To  -  morrow  the  discomfort  would 
return,  no  doubt,  but  with  enfeebled  spirit ; 
he  would  suffer  a  very  proper  remorse  for  some 
time — perhaps  a  week — and  then  the  affair 
would  dismiss  itself,  and  his  memory  would 
own  the  dirty  blot  no  longer.  As  the  meal 
went  forward  his  temper  rose.  He  smiled  upon 
his  wife  with  less  diffidence  ;  he  conversed  with 
less  effort     But  strangely,  as  he  mended,  and 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME     27 

the  first  horror  of  his  guilt  receded,  he  had  a 
leaning  to  confession.  Before,  he  had  felt  that 
pardon  was  impossible,  but  now  that  he  was 
come  within  range  of  forgiving  himself,  he 
began  to  desire  forgiveness  from  Letty  also. 
The  inclination  was  vague  and  formless,  yet  it 
moved  him  towards  the  subject  in  an  aimless 
way.  He  found  himself  wondering,  with  a 
throb  in  his  blood,  how  she  would  receive  his 
admissions,  and  awoke  with  the  tail  of  her  last 
sentence  in  his  ears. 

*  I  'm  so  glad  the  servants  have  gone.  I  much 
prefer  being  alone  with  you,  George.' 

*  Yes,'  he  murmured  absently,  *  they  're  a 
nuisance,  aren't  they?' 

She  pushed  the  claret  to  him,  and  he  filled 
his  glass  abstractedly.  Should  he  tell  her  now, 
he  was  thinking,  and  let  penitence  and  pardon 
crown  a  terrible  day  ?  At  her  next  words  he 
looked  up,  wondering. 

'  Had  Mr.  Fowler  any  news  of  Edward  ? '  she 
asked  idly. 

The  direction  of  her  thoughts  was  his ;  he 
played  with  the  thought  of  confession ;  his 
mind  itched  to  be  freed  of  its  burden. 

'Oh    no,  we  were    too    busy,'   he    laughed 


28    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

uneasily.  '  The  fact  is,  you  see,  Letty  dear — I 
have  a  confession  to  make ' 

She  regarded  him  inquiringly,  even  anxiously. 
He  had  taken  the  leap  without  his  own  know- 
ledge ;  the  words  refused  to  frame  upon  his 
tongue.  Of  a  sudden  the  impulse  fled,  screaming 
for  its  life,  and  he  was  brought  up,  breathless 
and  scared,  upon  the  brink  of  a  giddy  preci- 
pice. 

'What  confession,  darling?'  she  asked  in  a 
voice  which  showed  some  fear. 

The  current  of  his  ideas  stopped  in  full  flow  ; 
where  a  hundred  explanations  should  have 
rushed  about  his  brain,  he  could  find  not  one 
poor  lie  for  use. 

*  What  do  you  mean,  dearest  ? '  said  his  wife, 
her  face  straightened  with  anxiety. 

Farrell  paled  and  flushed  warm.  *  Oh,  nothing, 
my  darling  child,'  he  said  with  a  hurried  laugh ; 
'  we  played  baccarat' 

*  George  I '  she  cried  reproachfully.  '  How 
could  you,  when  you  had  promised  ? ' 

*  I  don't  know,'  he  stumbled  on  feverishly. 
'  I  was  weak,  I  suppose,  and  they  wanted  it, 
and — God  knows  I  've  never  done  it  before, 
since  I  promised,  Letty,'  he  broke  off  sharply. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME     29 

The  girl  said  nothing  at  the  moment,  but  sat 
staring  at  the  table-cloth,  and  then  reached  out 
a  hand  and  touched  his  tremulous  fingers. 

'  There,  there,  dear  boy,'  she  murmured  sooth- 
ingly, '  I  won't  be  cross ;  only  please,  please, 
don't  break  your  word  again.' 

*  No,  I  won't,  I  won't,'  muttered  the  man. 

*  I  daresay  it  was  hard,  but  it  cost  you  your 
train,  George,  and  you  were  punished  by  losing 
my  society  for  one  whole  night.  So  there — it 's 
all  right.'  She  pressed  the  hand  softly,  her  face 
glowing  under  the  candle-light  with  some  soft 
emotion. 

Farrell  withdrew  his  arm  gently. 
'  Have    some    more    wine,    dear,*    said    his 
wife. 

*  She  raised  the  bottle,  and  was  replenishing 
his  glass  when  he  pushed  it  roughly  aside. 

'  No  more,'  he  said  shortly,  *  no  more.' 
The  wound  broke  open  in  his  conscience,  red 
and  raw.  The  peace  which  had  gathered  upon 
him  lifted ;  he  was  shaken  into  fears  and 
tremors,  and  that  devilish  memory,  which  had 
retired  so  far,  came  back  upon  him,  urgent 
and  instant,  proclaiming  him  a  coward  and  a 
scoundrel.    He  sat  silent  and  disturbed,  with 


30    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

his  eyes  upon  the  crumbs,  among  which  his 
fingers  were  playing  restlessly.  Letty  rose,  and 
passed  to  the  window. 

'  How  dark  it  has  fallen  ! '  she  said,  peeping 
through  the  blinds, '  and  the  rain  is  pelting  so 
hard.  I  'm  glad  I  'm  not  out.  How  cold  it  is ! 
Do  stir  the  fire,  dearest.' 

Farrell  rose,  and  went  to  the  chimneypiece. 
He  struck  the  poker  through  the  crust  of  coal 
and  the  flames  leapt  forth  and  roared  about  the 
pieces.  The  heat  burned  in  his  face.  There 
came  upon  him  unbidden  the  recollection  of 
those  days,  a  year  ago,  when  he  and  Letty  had 
nestled  side  by  side,  watching  for  fortunes  in 
the  masses  of  that  golden  core.  She  had  seen 
palaces  and  stately  domes ;  her  rich  imagina- 
tion culled  histories  from  the  glowing  embers ; 
while  he,  searching  and  searching  in  vain,  had 
been  content  to  receive  her  fancies  and  sit  by 
simply  with  his  arm  about  her.  The  thought 
touched  him  to  a  smile  as  he  mused  in  the  flood 
of  the  warmth. 

Letty  still  stood  peering  out  upon  the  street, 
and  her  voice  came  to  him,  muffled  from  behind 
the  curtain. 

*0h,  those  poor  creatures!     How  cold  and 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME     31 

how  wet  they  must  be!  Look,  George,  dear. 
Why  don't  they  go  indoors  out  of  the  rain  ? ' 

Farrell,  the  smile  still  upon  his  lips,  turned 
his  face  towards  her  as  he  stooped. 

'Who,  child?' 

'Why,  those  women,'  said  his  wife  pitifully, 
'  why  don't  they  go  home  ?  They  keep  coming 
backwards  and  forwards.  I  've  seen  the  same 
faces  pass  several  times.  And  they  look  so 
bleak  and  wretched,  with  those  horrid  tawdry 
dresses.     No  one  ought  to  be  out  to-night' 

The  poker  fell  from  Farrell's  hand  with  a 
clatter  upon  the  fender. 

*  Damn  them ! '  he  cried,  in  a  fierce,  harsh 
voice. 

The  girl  pulled  the  curtain  back,  and  looked 
at  him. 

'Darling,'  she  said  plaintively,  'what  is  it? 
Why  do  you  say  such  horrible  things  ? ' 

Farrell's  face  was  coloured  with  passion  ;  he 
stood  staring  angrily  at  her. 

'George,  George,'  she  said,  coming  to  him, 
'  why  are  you  so  angry  with  me  ?  Oughtn't  I 
to  be  sorry  for  them  ?  I  can't  help  it ;  it  seems  so 
sad.  I  know  they  're  not  nice  people.  They  're 
dreadful,  dear,  of  course.     I  've  always  heard 


32    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

that,'  and  she  laid  her  face  against  his  breast. 
'But  it  can't  be  good  for  them  to  be  out  this 
wretched  night,  even  if  they  are  wicked.' 

She  pressed  against  him  as  for  sympathy, 
but  Farrell  made  no  response.  A  fearful  tension 
held  his  arms  and  body  in  a  kind  of  paralysis  ; 
but  presently  he  patted  her  head  softly,  and  put 
her  gently  from  him. 

*  I  'm  in  a  very  bad  temper  to-night,  dear,'  he 
said  slowly.  '  I  suppose  I  ought  to  go  to  bed 
and  hide  myself  till  I  'm  better,' 

She  clung  to  him  still.  *  Don't  put  me  away, 
George.  I  don't  mind  if  you  are  in  a  bad 
temper.  I  love  you,  dearest  Kiss  me,  dear, 
kiss  me  ;  I  get  so  frightened  now.' 

A  spasm  contracted  his  features ;  he  bent 
over  and  kissed  her ;  then  he  turned  away. 

'  I  will  go  and  read,'  he  said,  *  I  shall  be 
better  then.' 

She  ran  after  him.  '  Let  me  come  too,  George. 
I  will  sit  still  and  won't  disturb  you.  You  can't 
think  how  I  hate  being  alone  now.  I  can't 
understand  it.  Do  let  me  come,  for  you  know  I 
must  go  to  bed  early,  I  was  up  so  late  last  night.' 

The  pleading  words  struck  him  like  a  blow, 
•  Come,  then,'  he  answered,  taking  her  hand. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME    33 

'And  you  may  swear  if  you  want  to  very 
much,'  she  whispered,  laughing,  as  they  passed 
through  the  door. 

The  sun  rose  bright  and  clear ;  the  sky, 
purged  of  its  vapours,  shone  as  fine  as  on  a 
midsummer  day.  With  this  complaisance  of 
the  weather,  Farrell's  blacker  mood  had  passed. 
His  weak  nature,  sensitive  as  it  was  to  the 
touch  of  circumstances,  recovered  easily  from 
their  influences.  Sleep  had  renewed  the  elastic 
qualities  of  his  mind,  and  the  smiling  heaven 
set  him  in  great  spirits.  Letty,  too,  seemed 
better,  and  ate  and  talked  with  a  more  natural 
gaiety.  The  nightmare  of  the  previous  evening 
was  singularly  dim  and  characterless.  He  tried 
to  recall  the  terror  of  it,  and  wondered  why  it 
had  so  affected  him,  with  every  circumstance  of 
happiness  around — his  smiling  wife,  a  comfort- 
able house,  and  the  pleasant  distractions  of 
fortune.  The  gulf  that  opened  between  Letty 
and  himself  was  there  by  the  will  of  nature. 
He  had  but  flung  aside  the  conventions  that 
concealed  it.  It  was  a  horrid  gap,  but  he  had 
not  contrived  it.  The  sexes  kept  different  laws, 
and  he  himself,  in  all  likelihood,  came  nearer 
to  what  she  would  require  of  him  than  any 
C 


34    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

other  man.  He  assured  himself  with  convic- 
tion that  he  would  forget  altogether  in  a  few 
days. 

The  day  was  pleasantly  filled,  but  not  too 
full  for  the  elaboration  of  these  arguments. 
They  soothed  him  ;  he  grew  philosophic ;  he 
discussed  the  conditions  of  love  with  himself; 
he  even  broached  the  problem  in  an  abstract 
way  over  his  coffee  at  the  club.  For  the  first 
time  he  thought  that  he  had  clearly  determined 
the  nature  of  his  affection  for  Letty.  It  was 
integral  and  single  ;  it  was  built  upon  a  pack  of 
sentiments ;  it  was  very  tender,  and  it  would 
wear  extremely  well ;  but  it  was  not  that  first 
high  passion  which  he  had  once  supposed.  The 
unfamiliarity  of  that  earlier  exaltation  had 
deceived  him  into  a  false  definition  of  Love. 
There  was  none  such  in  circulation  among 
human  bodies.  There  were  degrees  upon  degrees 
of  affection,  and  Letty  and  he  stood  very  high 
in  rank  ;  but  to  conceive  of  their  love  as  some- 
thing emanating  from  a  superior  sphere  outside 
relation  to  the  world  and  other  human  beings 
was  the  absurd  and  delightful  flight  of  heedless 
passion. 

He  had  laid  his  ghost,  and  came  home  to  his 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME    35 

dinner  in  an  excellent  humour.  The  girl  looked 
forlorn  and  weary,  but  brightened  a  good  deal 
on  his  return.  With  her  for  audience  he 
chattered  in  quite  a  sparkling  temper.  Letty 
said  little,  but  regarded  him  often  with  great 
shy  eyes.  He  looked  up  sometimes  to  find 
them  upon  him  with  a  wistful,  even  a  pleading, 
gaze.  She  watched  every  movement  he  took 
jealously.  But  she  was  obviously  content,  and 
even  gay  in  a  sad  little  fashion.  He  did  not 
understand,  but  his  spirits  were  too  newly  blithe 
to  dwell  upon  a  puzzle.  He  noticed  with  scarce 
a  wonder  little  starts  of  pettishness  which  he 
had  never  seen  before.  They  flashed  and  were 
gone,  and  the  large  eyes  still  followed  him  with 
tenderness.  She  rested  her  arm  across  the 
table  in  the  middle  of  a  story  he  was  telling, 
and  rearranged  his  silver. 

'You  must  not  cross  your  knives,'  she  said 
playfully.  '  That's  a  bad  omen.'  He  laughed, 
and  continued  his  narrative. 

Left  to  himself,  Farrell  lit  a  cigarette,  and 
filled  his  glass  with  wine.  The  current  of  his 
spirits  had  passed,  but  he  felt  extremely  com- 
fortable, and  very  shortly  his  mind  stole  after 
his  wife,  who  was  playing  softly  in  the  further 


36    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

room  ;  he  could  see  the  yellow  fabric  of  the 
distant  curtains  gleaming  softly  in  the  lamp- 
light. He  had  a  desire  for  a  certain  air,  but 
could  not  bring  himself  to  interrupt.  An  at- 
mosphere of  content  enwrapped  him,  and  he 
leaned  back  lazily  in  his  chair.  Reflections 
came  to  him  easily.  Surely  there  was  no 
greater  comfort  than  this  serene  domestic  happi- 
ness, with  its  pleasant  round  of  change.  He 
had  set  Letty's  love  and  his  in  a  place  too  low 
for  justice.  It  held  a  sweeter  fragrance,  it  was 
touched  with  higher  light,  than  the  commoner 
affections  of  common  people.  A  genial  warmth 
flooded  his  soul,  and  his  heart  nestled  into  the 
comfort  of  desire.  He  was  hot  with  wine,  and 
his  whole  being  thrilled  with  the  content  of  his 
own  reflections.  He  asked  no  better  than  this 
quiet  ecstasy,  repeated  through  a  suave  un- 
troubled life.  The  personal  charm  of  that  fine 
body,  the  intimate  distinctions  of  its  subtle 
grace,  the  flow  of  that  soft  voice,  the  sweet 
attention  of  that  devoted  human  soul — these 
were  his  lot  by  fortune.  They  conducted  him 
upon  a  future  which  was  strangely  attractive. 
He  had  loved  her  for  some  months  more  than  a 
year,  and  earlier  that  day  he  had  summoned  his 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME     37 

bridal  thoughts  down  to  a  pedestrian  level ;  but 
now  in  this  hour  of  sudden  illumination,  flushed 
with  the  kindly  influence  of  his  wine,  his  after- 
noon fancy  seemed  to  him  ungenerously  dipt 
and  tame.  Letty  stood  for  what  was  noble  in 
his  narrow  life ;  she  invited  him  upon  a  high 
ideal  way.  If  he  were  framed  of  grosser  clay, 
it  was  she  who  would  refine  the  fabric.  The 
thought  struck  him  sharply.  He  had  learned 
to  dispose  his  error  in  its  proper  place,  among 
the  sins,  and  he  was  not  going  to  assign  penalties 
unduly ;  but  the  bare  fact  came  home  to  him 
that  he  was  unworthy  of  this  woman's  love,  that 
no  man  deserved  it.  He  had  evilly  entreated 
her,  but  he  would  rise  to  a  new  level  in  her 
company,  and  with  her  aid.  She  should  renew 
in  him  the  faded  qualities  of  innocence  and 
pure-heartedness  which  as  a  child  he  had  once 
possessed.  He  would  ask  her  mercy,  and  use 
her  help.  Her  pardon  should  purge  him  of  his 
dishonour ;  she  should  take  him  to  her  heart, 
and  perfect  faith  should  rest  between  them. 

The  vision  he  had  conceived  drew  his  atten- 
tion strongly ;  he  seemed  to  himself,  and  in  a 
measure  was,  ennobled  by  this  aspiration.  Out 
of  the  fulness  of  his  penitence  he  now  desired 


38    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

the  confession  he  had  feared  but  a  little  time 
before.  And,  as  he  reflected,  the  notes  of  the 
piano  changed,  and  Letty  shot  into  a  gay 
chansonnette,  trilling  softly  over  the  sharp  little 
runs.  The  careless  leisure  of  the  air  took  off 
his  thoughts  with  it.  It  would  be  a  bad  world 
in  which  they  might  not  be  happy.  The  story 
would  hurt  her,  he  was  sure ;  indeed,  he  could 
conjure  before  him  the  start  of  pain  in  her  eyes. 
But  after  the  shock  she  would  resume  her  trust, 
and  forget,  as  he  was  forgetting.  He  was 
entirely  certain  of  her  love,  and,  that  secure, 
nothing  could  divide  them.  Perhaps  she  were 
better  left  to  herself  till  she  recovered  from  the 
blow ;  he  would  go  away  for  a  day  or  two.  It 
might  even  take  her  worse  than  he  expected, 
and  he  would  have  dull  faces  and  tearful  re- 
proaches for  a  week  or  more.  If  this  fell  out, 
it  was  his  punishment,  and  he  would  bear  it  in 
humility. 

As  his  thoughts  ran  he  had  not  noticed  that 
the  music  ceased,  and  Letty's  voice  broke  on 
his  reverie. 

'  Mayn't  I  sit  with  you,  dear,'  she  pleaded. 
*  It 's  so  solitary  in  the  big  room  ! ' 

'Why,  of   course,  sweetheart,'   said   Farrell 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME     39 

gently  ;  '  come  in,  and  close  the  door ;  we  '11  be 
snug  for  a  little  while  in  here.' 

Letty  stood  by  his  chair  and  stroked  his 
head. 

'  You  never  came  to  say  good-night  to  me 
last  night,'  she  said  reproachfully. 

Farrell  put  up  his  hand  and  took  hers, 

*  Dearest,  you  must  forgive  me.  I — I  was 
very  tired,  and  had  a  headache.' 

'  Ah,  that  was  the  penalty  for  staying  up  so 
late,'  she  replied  playfully. 

Farrell  smiled  and  patted  her  hand. 

*  But  you  will  come  to-night,  won't  you?'  she 
urged. 

'  Dear  heart,  of  course  I  will,'  he  said,  smiling 
indulgently.  '  I  '11  come  and  have  a  long  talk 
with  you.' 

His  wife  sighed  ;  in  part,  as  it  seemed,  with 
satisfaction,  and  leaned  her  chin  upon  his  hair. 

'Life  is  very  curious,  isn't  it,  George?'  she 
said  meditatively,  her  eyes  gazing  in  abstraction 
at  the  wall.  *  There  are  so  many  things  we 
don't  know.      I  never  dreamed ' 

Farrell  patted  her  hand  again  affectionately, 
reassuringly. 

'  I    couldn't    have    guessed,'    she    went    on 


40    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

dreamily.  '  It  is  all  so  strange  and  painful,  and 
yet  not  quite  painful.  I  wonder  if  you  under- 
stand, George,' 

'  I  think  I  do,  dear,'  said  he  softly. 

'  Ah,  but  how  can  you  quite  ?  Girls  are  so 
ignorant.  Do  you  think  they  ought  to  be  told  ? 
I  shouldn't  have  liked  to  be  told,  though.  I 
should  have  been  so  afraid,  but  now  somehow 
I  'm  not  afraid — not  quite.' 

A  note  of  pain  trembled  through  her  voice  ; 
she  drew  a  sharp  breath  and  shivered. 

'  George,  you  don't  think  I  shall  die,  do  you, 
George  ?     O  George,  if  I  should  die  ! ' 

She  fell  on  her  knees  at  his  feet,  looking  into 
his  face  with  searching  eyes  that  pleaded  for 
comfort.  He  drew  her  head  towards  him,  a 
gulp  in  his  throat,  and  caressed  her  hair. 

'  There,  child,  there ! '  he  said  soothingly,  *  you 
are  frightening  yourself.  Of  course  not,  silly 
one,  of  course  not.' 

She  crouched  against  his  knees,  and  he  stroked 
her  hair  tenderly.  Pity  pulled  at  his  heart,  and 
at  the  touch  of  her  he  was  warmed  with  affec- 
tion. He  had  no  means  of  consolation  save  this 
smoothing  motion  of  the  palm,  but  he  yearned 
for   some  deeper  expression  of  his   love  and 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME    41 

sympathy.  In  the  silence  his  thoughts  turned 
to  their  former  occupation,  and  he  felt  nearer 
than  ever  to  his  wife.  He  would  tell  her  when 
she  had  recovered. 

She  raised  her  head  at  length  and  looked  at 
him. 

'  Oh,  you  will  think  I  'm  not  brave,'  she  said 
tremulously, '  but  I  am  brave — indeed,  George. 
It  is  only  sometimes  that  I  get  this  fit  of 
depression,  and  it  overbears  me.  But  it  isn't 
me ;  it  is  something  quite  foreign  within  me : 
I  was  never  a  coward,  dear.' 

*  No,  darling,'  he  answered,  '  of  course  you 
are  not  a  coward.  You  're  brave,  very  brave  ; 
you  're  my  dear  brave  wife  ? '  She  smiled  at 
him  faintly.  *  And  you  know,  Letty,'  he  went 
on,  still  with  his  hand  upon  her  head.  '  I  think 
we  've  been  very  happy  together,  and  shall  be 
very  happy  together,  always.  There  is  so  much 
that  binds  us  to  one  another.  You  love  me, 
dear,  don't  you?  and  you  could  never  doubt 
that  I  love  you,  could  you  ? ' 

Letty  shook  her  head.  He  cast  down  his 
eyes,  patting  the  tresses  softly. 

'  And  I  think  you  know  that  well  enough  and 
are  certain  enough  of  that  not  to  misjudge  me,' 


42    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

he  resumed  quietly.  '  If  I  have  made  a  mistake, 
Letty,  it  is  not  you  who  will  be  hardest  on  me, 
I  am  sure.  It  is  I  myself.  If  I  have  fallen  into 
a  seeming  disloyalty,  it  is  not  I,  as  you  will 
believe  and  understand,  but  something,  as  you 
said  just  now,  quite  foreign  within  me.  For  I 
could  only  be  true  and  loyal  and ' 

He  hesitated,  raising  his  shameful  eyes  to  her. 

'What — what  is  it,  George?'  she  asked 
anxiously,  'what  have  you  done?'  His  hand 
rose  and  fell  mechanically  upon  her  head.  He 
parted  his  lips  with  an  effort,  and  continued. 
The  task  was  harder  than  he  had  thought. 

'  It  is  right,'  he  said  slowly, '  that  we  should 
have  no  secrets  from  one  another;  it  is  necessary, 
dear,  that  we  should  bear  all  things  in  common. 
To  be  man  and  wife,  and  to  love  each  other, 
calls  for  this  openness  between  us.*  He 
stumbled  on  the  threshold  of  his  confession ; 
the  pain  of  this  slow  progression  suddenly 
unnerved  him  ;  all  at  once  he  took  it  with  a 
rush.  *  Darling,'  he  cried  quickly  and  on  a 
sharper  note, '  I  want  to  confess  something  to 
you,  and  I  want  your  forgiveness.  That  night 
I  was  away,  I  did  not  spend  with  Fowler.  I 
spent  it ' 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME    43 

'  You  spent  it  gambling  ? '  she  asked  in  a 
low  voice. 

'  No,'  he  said  with  a  groan,  *  I  spent  it  in 
another  house — I  spent  it — I  spent  it  in 
shame.' 

He  breathed  the  better  for  the  words,  even 
though  a  terrible  silence  reigned  in  the  room. 
At  least  the  worst  part  of  his  penalty  was 
undergone;  the  explanation  was  over. 

But  when  she  spoke  he  realised,  with  a  sense 
of  dread,  that  he  had  not  passed  the  ordeal. 

*  I  don't  understand,  George,'  she  said  in  a 
voice  thick  with  trouble  ;  *  what  is  it  ?  Where 
did  you  stay  ? ' 

The  strain  was  too  great  for  his  weak  nerves. 

'  For  God's  sake,  Letty,'  he  broke  out, '  try  to 
understand  me  and  forgive  me.  I  dined  too 
well ;  I  was  almost  drunk.  I  left  the  club  with 
Fowler  very  late.  Oh,  it 's  hideous  to  have  to 
tell  you.  I  met  some  one  I  had  never  seen 
since — oh !  long  before  I  loved  you.  I  could 
not  pass  her.  I — O  God !  can't  you  under- 
stand ?     Don't  make  me  explain  so  horribly.' 

The  tale  ran  from  him  in  short  and  broken 
sentences.  His  fingers  twisted  nervously  about 
a  wisp  of  her  hair ;  his  gaze  had  nowhere  rest 


44    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

She  looked  full  into  his  face  with  frightened 
eyes. 

*  Do  you  mean — those  women — we  saw  ? '  she 
asked  at  last,  in  a  voice  pitched  so  low  that  he 
hardly  heard. 

'  Yes,'  he  whispered ;  and  then  again  there 
was  silence.  The  agony  of  the  suspense  was 
intolerable.  'You  will  never  forgive  me,'  he 
muttered. 

He  felt  her  trembling  hands  grow  cold  under 
his  touch ;  and,  as  she  still  kept  silence,  he 
dropped  his  slow,  reluctant  glance  to  meet  hers. 
At  the  sight  of  the  terrified  eyes,  he  put  his 
hands  towards  her  quickly. 

'  Letty,  Letty,'  he  cried, '  for  God's  sake,  don't 
look  like  that !  Speak  to  me  ;  say  you  forgive 
me.     Dearest,  darling,  forgive  me  ! ' 

She  rose  as  if  unconscious  of  her  action,  and, 
walking  slowly  to  the  fireplace,  stood  looking  at 
the  red  flames. 

'  Letty,'  he  called,  *  don't  spurn  me  like  this. 
Darling,  darling ! ' 

His  attitude,  as  he  waited  for  her  response, 
there,  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  was  one  of 
singular  despair.  His  mouth  was  wried  with 
an  expression  of  suffering ;  he  endured  all  the 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME    45 

pangs  of  a  sensitive  nature  which  has  been 
always  wont  to  shelter  itself  from  pain.  But 
still  she  made  no  answer.  And  then  she 
seemed  suddenly  taken  with  a  great  convul- 
sion ;  her  body  trembled  and  shivered  ;  she 
wheeled  half-way  round  with  a  cry  ;  her  eyes 
shone  with  pain. 

'  George,  George ! '  she  screamed  on  a  horrid 
note  of  agony,  and  swaying  for  a  second  to 
and  fro,  fell  hard  across  the  fender  and  against 
the  live  bars  of  the  grate. 

Farrell  sprang  across  the  intervening  space 
and  swung  her  head  away  from  the  angry 
flames.  She  lay  limp  and  still  upon  the 
hearthrug,  a  smear  of  black  streaking  her 
white  arm  from  the  elbow,  the  smell  of  her 
frizzled  gown  fusing  with  the  odour  of  burned 
hair.  Her  face  was  set  white,  the  mouth 
peaked  with  a  spasm  of  pain  ;  the  eyelids 
had  not  fully  fallen,  and  a  dreadful  glimmer 
of  light  flickered  from  a  slit  in  the  uncon- 
scious eyes.  He  stood,  struck  weak  and  silent 
for  a  moment,  and  then  flung  himself  upon  the 
floor,  and  hung  over  the  body. 

•Letty,  Letty!'  he  cried.  '  Letty,  Letty ! 
O  my  God !   have  I  killed  you  ? '      The  flesh 


46    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

twitched  upon  the  drawn  face,  and  a  moan 
issued  from  her  lips.  Farrell  leapt  to  the 
bell-rope  and  pulled  fast ;  and  away  in  some 
distant  depth  the  peals  jingled  in  alarm.  A 
servant  threw  open  the  door  and  rushed  into 
the  room. 

'  A  doctor,  a  doctor ! '  cried  Farrell,  vehe- 
mently. *  Get  a  doctor  at  once.  Your  mistress 
is  ill.  Do  you  hear,  Jackson  ?  God,  man,  don't 
stare  at  me.     Go,  go  ! ' 

As  the  door  closed  Farrell's  glance  stole  back 
to  the  floor.  His  breath  came  fast  as  he  con- 
templated the  body.  It  lay  there  as  though 
flung  by  the  hand  of  death,  and  wore  a  pitiful 
aspect.  It  forbade  him  ;  it  seemed  to  lower  at 
him  ;  he  could  not  associate  it  with  life,  still 
less  with  Letty.  It  owned  some  separate  and 
horrible  existence  of  itself  The  flames  mount- 
ing in  the  fire  threw  out  great  flashes  upon  the 
recumbent  figure,  and  the  very  flesh  took  on  a 
moving  colour.  Hours  seemed  to  pass  as  he 
stood  beside  her,  and  not  until  the  quivering 
eyelids  denoted  a  return  of  life  did  he  gain 
courage  to  touch  her.  With  that  she  became 
somehow  familiar  again  ;  she  was  no  more  the 
blank  eidolon  of  a  woman.     He  put  his  arms 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME    47 

beneath  her  and  slowly  lifted  the  reviving 
body  to  the  sofa.  The  blood  renewed  its 
course  in  the  arteries,  and  she  opened  her  eyes 
dully  and  closed  them  again. 

The  entrance  of  the  doctor  dispelled  for  a 
while  the  gloomy  thoughts  that  environed  him. 
The  man  was  a  stranger,  but  was  welcomed 
as  an  intimate. 

*  She  has  had  a  shock,'  said  Farrell, '  you  will 
understand.     It  was  my  doing,'  he  added. 

The  sharp  change  from  the  dreadful  reveries 
of  his  solitude  turned  Farrell  to  a  different 
creature.  He  was  animated  with  action  ;  he 
bustled  about  on  errands ;  he  ran  for  brandy, 
and  his  legs  bore  him  everywhere,  hardly  with 
his  knowledge.  And  as  the  examination  pro- 
ceeded he  grew  strangely  cheerful,  watching 
the  face  of  the  physician  and  drawing  inferences 
to  his  fancy.  He  laughed  lightly  at  the  doubt 
if  she  could  be  lifted  to  her  room. 

'  Yes,  of  course,'  said  he. 

*  The  stairs  are  steep,  sir,'  said  Letty's  maid. 
He  smiled,  and  drew  back  the  cuffs  from  his 

strong  wrists.  Stooping,  he  picked  up  his  wife 
lightly,  and  strode  upstairs. 

As  the  doctor  was  leaving,  Farrell  waylaid 


48    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

him  in  the  hall,  and  took  him  to  the  door.  The 
visitor  drew  on  his  gloves  and  spoke  of  the 
weather ;  the  sky  threatened  rain  again  and 
the  night  was  growing  black.  Farrell  agreed 
with  him  hurriedly,  adding  a  few  remarks  of 
no  interest,  as  though  to  preserve  that  air  of  un- 
concern which  the  doctor  seemed  to  take  for 
granted  ;  and  then,  with  his  hand  on  the  door, 
abruptly  touched  his  subject. 

'  Is  there  any  danger  ? '  he  asked. 

The  doctor  paused  and  buttoned  his  glove. 

*  She  is  very  sensitive,'  said  the  doctor. 

'  It  was  my  doing,'  said  Farrell,  after  a  moment, 
dropping  his  eyes  to  the  floor. 

*It  is  a  dangerous  time,'  said  the  doctor. 
'  Very  little  may  do  damage.  We  can't  be  too 
careful  in  these  affairs.' 

He  finished  with  his  gloves,  and  put  out  his 
hand. 

'  Have  I,'  stammered  Farrell,  '  have  I  done 
irreparable  harm  ? ' 

*  She  is  very  delicate,'  said  the  doctor. 
'What  will    it  mean?'  asked   the  husband, 

lowering  his  voice. 

The  doctor  smiled  and  touched  him  with  his 
fingers.     '  If  you  were  to  cut  your  finger,  my 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME    49 

friend,  a  doctor  would  never  prophesy.  Events 
are  out  of  all  proportion  to  causes.*  He  put 
his  own  hand  upon  the  latch.  '  I  will  call  to- 
morrow early,'  he  said,  '  and  will  send  a  nurse 
at  once.' 

Farrell  took  his  arm  in  a  hard  grip. 

•  Is  she  dying  ? '  he  asked  hoarsely. 

The  doctor  moved  impatiently.  *  My  dear 
sir,  certainly  not,'  he  answered  hastily.  He 
threw  open  the  door  and  emerged  into  the 
night  *  I  would  not  distress  myself  with  un- 
necessary fancies,  Mr.  Farrell,'  said  he,  as  he 
dropped  down  the  steps. 

Farrell  walked  down  the  hall  to  the  foot  of 
the  stairs.  He  laid  a  hand  upon  the  balustrade 
uncertainly.  The  house  was  engrossed  in 
silence ;  then  from  the  floor  above  came  a 
sharp  cry,  as  of  a  creature  in  pain,  and  a  door 
shut  softly.  Trembling,  he  rushed  into  the 
dining-room,  and  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 
Yet  that  weak  device  was  no  refuge  from 
his  hideous  thoughts.  His  brain  was  crowded 
with  fears  and  terrors ;  in  the  solitude  of  that 
chamber  he  was  haunted  by  frightful  ghosts. 
The  things  stood  upon  the  white  cloth,  like 
spectres ;  the  lamp  burned  low,  and  splashes 
P 


50    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

of  flame  rose  and  fell  in  the  ashes.  He  rose 
and  poured  some  brandy  into  a  glass.  The 
muscles  jumped  in  his  hands,  and  the  liquor 
spilled  over  the  edges  and  stained  his  shirt, 
but  the  draught  strung  up  his  nerves,  and 
brighter  thoughts  flowed  in  his  mind.  He 
pulled  out  a  chair  before  the  fire  and  sat 
down,  meditating  more  quietly. 

An  hour  later  he  was  disturbed  from  his 
reflections  by  the  passage  of  feet  along  the 
hall.  His  ears  took  in  the  sound  with  a  fret 
of  new  anxiety ;  it  portended  fresh  horrors  to 
him.  But  in  a  little  he  realised  from  the 
voices  without  that  the  nurse  had  arrived,  and 
a  feeling  of  relief  pervaded  him.  The  foot- 
steps passed  upstairs.  He  sat  passive  within 
the  arms  of  his  chair  and  listened.  A  fresh 
hope  of  succour  lay  in  those  feet.  The  doctor 
and  the  nurse  and  the  maid  were  doing  what 
was  vital ;  in  their  attentions  was  the  promise 
of  rescue.  It  was  as  if  he  himself  took  no  part 
in  the  tragedy ;  he  sat  as  a  spectator  in  the 
stalls,  and  viewed  the  action  only  with  the 
concern  of  an  interested  visitor.  He  filled 
another  tumbler  with  spirit. 

The  alcohol  fired  his  blood,  and  raised  him 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME     51 

superior  to  the  petty  worry  of  his  nerves.  He 
drank  and  stared  in  the  embers  and  considered. 
Letty  was  ill  in  a  manner  not  uncommon  ;  even 
though  it  threatened  the  sacrifice  of  one  life  the 
malady  was  not  inevitably  mortal.  He  had 
been  bidden  to  discharge  his  fears,  and  brandy 
had  discharged  them  for  him.  He  turned  to 
fill  his  glass  again  ;  the  fumes  were  in  his  head, 
but  at  that  moment  the  recollection  of  his  last 
excess  flashed  suddenly  upon  him,  and,  with  an 
inarticulate  scream  of  rage,  he  dashed  the  bottle 
to  the  floor,  and  ground  the  glass  under  his 
feet.  Rising  irresolutely  he  made  his  way 
upstairs,  and  paused  before  Letty's  door.  At 
his  knock  the  nurse  came  out  and  greeted  him 
— a  strange  tall  woman  with  hard  eyes. 

*  My  wife ' — he  asked,  *  Is  Mrs.  Farrell  better  ? ' 
She  pushed  him  gently  away.  '  I  think  so,' 
she  said ;  *  we  shall  see.  The  worst  is  over, 
perhaps.  You  understand.  Hush,  she  is 
sleeping  now  at  last.'  He  lingered  still,  and 
she  made  a  gesture  to  dismiss  him,  her  voice 
softening.  *  Doctor  Green  will  tell  you  best 
to-morrow.' 

Farrell  entered  his  room  and  took  off"  his  coat. 
His  ears,  grown  delicate  to  the  merest  suspicion, 


52    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

seemed  to  catch  a  sound  upon  the  stillness, 
and  opening  the  door  he  looked  out.  All  was 
quiet ;  the  great  lamp  upon  the  landing  swung 
noiselessly,  shedding  its  dim  beams  upon  the 
panelled  walls.  He  shut  to  the  door,  and  once 
more  was  in  the  wilderness  of  his  own  thoughts. 

The  doctor  came  twice  that  next  day.  In 
the  morning  a  white  and  anxious  face  met  him 
on  the  stairs  and  scanned  him  eagerly. 

'  She  is  going  on,  going  on,'  said  he  de- 
liberately. 

'  Then  the  danger  is  past  ? '  cried  Farrell,  his 
heart  beating  with  new  vigour. 

'No  doctor  can  say  that,'  said  the  doctor 
slowly.  '  She  is  as  well  as  I  expected  to  find 
her.     It  was  very  difficult.' 

'  But  will  she '  began  Farrell,  stammering. 

'  Well  ? '  exclaimed  the  doctor  sharply. 

'  Will  she  live  ? ' 

The  doctor's  eye  avoided  his.  '  These  things 
are  never  certain,'  he  said.  '  You  must  hope.  I 
know  more  than  you,  and  I  hope.' 

'Yes,  yes,'  cried  Farrell  impatiently.  'But, 
my  God,  doctor,'  he  burst  forth, '  will  she  die  ? ' 

The  doctor  glanced  at  him  and  then  away 
It  is  possible,'  he  said  gravely. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME     53 

Farrell  leaned  back  against  the  handrail  and 
mechanically  watched  him  pass  the  length  of 
the  hall  and  let  himself  out.  Some  one  touched 
his  arm,  and  he  looked  up. 

'Come,  sir,  come,'  said  the  nurse.  *You 
mustn't  give  way.  Nothing  has  happened.  She 
is  very  weak,  but  I  've  seen  weaker  folk  pull 
through.* 

He  descended  the  stairs  and  entered  the 
drawing-room.  The  room  looked  vacant ;  the 
inanimate  furniture  seemed  to  keep  silence  and 
stare  at  him  ;  he  felt  every  object  in  that  place 
was  privy  to  his  horrible  story.  They  regarded 
him  sternly ;  he  seemed  to  feel  the  hush  in 
which  they  had  talked  together,  ere  he  entered. 
He  could  not  bear  the  condemnation  of  that 
silence,  and  sat  down  at  the  piano,  softly 
fingering  the  notes.  But  the  voices  of  those 
chords  cried  to  him  of  Letty.  It  was  her 
favourite  instrument,  the  purchase  of  her  own 
means,  and  every  resonance  reminded  him  of 
her.  It  was  by  her  hand  that  melodies  had 
been  framed  and  fashioned  from  the  strings ; 
his  was  an  alien  touch.  They  wept  for  their 
mistress  underneath  his  fingers ;  he  struck  at 
random,  and  melancholy  cadences  mourned  at 


54    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

him.  They  knew  his  secret,  too.  With  a 
horrid,  miserable  laugh  he  got  up,  and  putting 
on  his  hat,  went  forth  and  down  to  his  club. 

The  change  did  not  distract  his  thoughts  ; 
the  burden  lay  as  heavy  upon  his  mind,  but  at 
least  the  walk  was  an  occupation.  He  came 
back  with  a  bundle  of  letters  which  his  indolent 
nature  had  allowed  to  accumulate  with  the 
porter,  and,  retiring  to  his  smoking-room,  made 
a  manful  effort  to  re-engage  his  attention.  With 
this  work  and  the  hour  of  lunch,  the  time 
passed  until  the  doctor's  second  visit.  He 
heard  the  arrival,  and,  putting  down  his  pen, 
waited  in  a  growing  fever  for  the  sound  of  feet 
descending  on  the  stairs.  The  smoking-room 
lay  back  from  the  hall,  but  Farrell  flung  open 
his  door  and  listened.  The  day  was  falling  in 
and  the  shadows  were  deepening  about  him, 
but  still  the  doctor  made  no  sign.  At  length 
he  left  his  chair  and  called  Jackson.  The 
doctor  had  gone.  He  must  have  left  without 
noise,  and  he,  Jackson,  had  not  heard  him  ;  it 
was  the  maid  who  had  seen  him  go.  The 
discovery  threw  Farrell  into  fresh  agitation ; 
his  anger  mingled  with  terror.  He  had  wanted 
a   report  of  the   illness ;   he   would   have  the 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME     55 

doctor  back  at  once ;  he  had  a  thousand 
questions  to  put.  Rushing  up  the  stairs  he 
rapped  at  the  door  of  the  sick-room,  softly  and 
feverishly.  When  the  nurse  presented  herself 
he  burst  out  impetuously.  He  must  come  in  ; 
he  would  see  his  wife  ;  he  was  persistently  held 
in  ignorance  of  her  condition,  and  he  demanded 
admittance  as  a  right  The  nurse  stood  aside 
and  beckoned  him  forward  without  a  word. 
Her  face  was  set  harder  than  ever ;  she  looked 
worn  and  weary. 

Farrell  entered  softly,  and  with  furtive  fears. 

*  You  may  stay  if  you  will  be  still,'  said  the 
nurse.  Farrell  looked  at  her  inquiringly,  be- 
seechingly. '  No,'  she  added,  '  you  will  not 
disturb  her.  She  has  been  put  to  sleep.  She 
suffered  a  good  deal.     It  is  a  bad  case.' 

'  Will  she  live  ? '  whispered  Farrell. 

The  nurse  shook  her  head.  '  She  will  not 
suffer  much  more.  She  will  sleep.  But  the 
doctor  will  come  in  the  morning.  We  have 
done  everything.' 

Farrell  shuddered,  and  drew  near  the  bed. 
The  lamp  burned  low  upon  the  dressing-table, 
and  the  chamber  was  in  a  soft  twilight.  He 
could  not  see  her  face,  but  her  dark  hair  was 


56    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

scattered  over  the  white  pillows.  A  slow  slight 
breathing  filled  the  room.  The  window  rattled 
with  a  passing  noise.  Farrell  sat  down  upon  a 
chair  beyond  th?  bed,  and  the  nurse  resumed 
her  place  by  the  fire,  warming  her  hands.  Out- 
side the  traffic  passed  with  low  and  distant 
rumbling. 

At  the  sound  the  nurse  stole  stealthily  to  the 
door  and  opened  it. 

'  It  is  your  dinner,'  she  whispered  turning  to 
Farrell. 

He  shook  his  head.  '  I  will  stay  here,'  said 
he  in  a  monotone. 

'You  had  better  go,'  she  urged.  'You  will 
want  it.  You  can  do  nothing.*  He  shook  his 
head  again  impatiently.  She  yawned,  closed 
the  door,  and,  with  a  little  sigh  of  weariness, 
retraced  her  steps  to  the  hearth.  Farrell  rose 
and  followed  her. 

'  Come,'  he  said,  bending  over  her,  '  you  are 
very  tired.  Go  and  rest  in  the  next  room. 
There  is  nothing  to  be  done.  I  will  call  you. 
Let  me  watch.  I  wish  it'  She  looked  at  him 
in  doubt  '  Yes,  yes,'  he  pleaded.  '  Don't  you 
see  ?     I  must  be  here,  and  you  want  sleep.' 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME     57 

She  glanced  round  the  room,  as  if  to  assure 
herself  that  there  was  nothing  to  require  her. 

'  Very  well,'  she  assented, '  but  call  me  soon  ;  * 
and  she  vanished  through  the  doorway  like  a 
wraith. 

Farrell  took  his  seat  and  regarded  his  wife. 
The  breathing  came  gently  ;  the  masses  of 
dark  hair  swarmed  over  the  head  that  crouched 
low  upon  the  pillow  ;  one  arm,  crossing  the 
face  with  shadow,  lay  reaching  toward  the  brow. 
The  room  glowed  with  luminous  gloom  rather 
than  with  light.  The  figure  rested  upon  its 
side,  and  the  soft  rise  of  the  hip  stood  out  from 
the  hollows  of  the  coverlet.  In  the  grate  the 
ashes  stirred  and  clinked ;  the  street  mumbled 
without ;  but  within  that  chamber  the  stillness 
hung  heavily.  Farrell  seemed  to  hear  it  deepen, 
and  the  quiet  air  spoke  louder  to  him,  as  though 
charged  with  some  secret  and  mysterious 
mission.  He  followed  the  hush  with  a  mind 
half  vacant  and  wholly  irrelevant  But  pre- 
sently the  faintest  rustle  came  with  a  roar  upon 
his  senses,  and  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  stricken 
with  sudden  terror.  The  body  moved  slightly 
under  its  wrappings  ;  the  arm  dropped  slowly 
down  the  pillow  into  the  darker  hollows  of  the 


58    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

counterpane ;  the  hair  fell  away ;  and  the  face, 
relapsing,  softly  edged  into  the  twilight. 

Farrell  stood  staring,  mute  and  distracted, 
upon  this  piteous  piece  of  poor  humanity.  Its 
contrast  with  the  woman  he  had  known  and 
loved  appalled  him.  His  jaw  fell  open,  his 
nails  scored  into  his  palms,  his  eyes  bulged 
beneath  his  brows.  The  face  rested,  white  and 
withered,  among  the  frillings  of  her  gown ; 
unaccustomed  lines  picked  out  the  cheeks  ;  the 
mouth  was  drawn  pitifully  small  and  pinched 
with  suffering.  Even  as  he  looked  she  seemed 
to  his  scared  gaze  to  shrink  and  shrivel  under 
pain.  This  was  not  the  repose  of  sleep,  releasing 
from  the  burden  of  sickness ;  surely  he  could 
see  her  face  and  body  pricked  over  with  starts 
and  pangs  under  his  eyes.  It  seemed  to  his 
morbid  thoughts  that  he  could  read  upon  her 
moving  features  the  horrible  story  of  that  slow 
disintegration.  In  his  very  sight  the  flesh 
appeared  to  take  on  the  changing  colours  of 
decay.  He  withdrew  aghast  from  the  proximity ; 
he  blanched,  and  was  wrung  with  panic.  In 
what  place  within  that  breathing  human  fabric 
was  death  starting  upon  his  dreadful  round? 
She  respired  gently,  the  heart  beat  softly,  the 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME     59 

tissues,  yet  instinct  with  life,  were  rebuilded 
piece  by  piece.  Wherein  lay  the  secret  of  that 
fading  life  ? 

The  counterpane  stirred  faintly,  and  drew 
his  attention.  His  wandering  glance  went  down 
the  centre  of  that  swathed  body.  The  limbs 
still  beat  warm  with  blood,  and  yet  to-morrow 
they  must  stretch  out  in  stiff  obedience  to 
strange  hands.  The  fancy  was  horrible — a  cry 
burst  from  him  and  rang  in  the  still  and 
changeless  chamber.  The  sound  terrified  him 
anew,  breaking  thus  rudely  upon  the  silence. 
He  feared  that  she  would  awake,  and  he 
trembled  at  the  prospect  of  her  speechless  eyes. 
And  yet  he  had  withal  a  passionate  desire  to 
resolve  her  from  this  deathly  calm,  and  to  see 
her  once  more  regarding  him  with  love.  She 
hung  still  upon  the  verge  of  that  great  darkness, 
and  one  short  call  would  bring  her  sharply 
back.  He  had  but  to  bend  to  her  ears  and 
whisper  loudly,  and  that  hovering  spirit  would 
return.     He  stood,  a  coward,  by  the  bed. 

And  now  the  lips  in  that  shrunken  face 
parted  suddenly,  the  bosom  quickened,  and  the 
throat  rattled  with  noises.  It  flashed  upon  him 
that  this  at  last  was  the  article  of  death,  and 


6o    THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 

vainly  he  strove  to  call  for  help ;  his  voice 
stifled  in  his  mouth.  She  should  not  so  dissolve 
at  least ;  she  should  breathe  freely ;  he  would 
give  her  air — and,  springing  with  an  effort  to 
the  window,  he  flung  it  back.  The  cool  air 
flowed  in,  and,  turning  quickly,  he  looked  down 
upon  the  bed. 

The  eyes  had  fallen  open,  and  were  set  upon 
him,  full  and  wide.  Unnerved  already  as  he 
was,  the  change  paralysed  him,  and  he  stood 
for  a  moment  stark  and  motionless.  The  fire 
flared  up  and  lit  the  face  with  colour ;  the  eyes 
shone  brightly,  and  he  seemed  to  see  into  their 
deepest  corners.  There  was  that  in  them 
from  which  he  recoiled  at  length  slowly  and 
with  horror.  They  fastened  upon  him  mutely, 
pleading  with  him  for  mercy.  They  were  like 
the  eyes  of  a  creature  hunted  beyond  a  prospect 
of  defence.  Dumbly  they  dwelt  on  him,  as 
though  in  his  presence  they  had  surrendered 
their  last  hope.  They  seemed  to  wait  upon  him, 
submissive  to  their  fate,  yet  luminous  with  that 
despair.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  the  wheels  of 
his  being  were  without  his  present  rule,  and  he 
might  only  stand  and  shudder  and  give  back 
glance  for  glance.     He  looked  away,  but  his 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME    6i 

fascinated  gaze  returned  again  to  those  re- 
proaching eyes.  They  did  not  waver ;  it  was 
as  if  they  dared  not  lose  their  sight  of  a  pitiless 
enemy.  They  recognised  him  as  their  butcher. 
Even  through  her  sleep  this  poor  weary 
soul  had  come  to  understand  his  proximity, 
and  had  woke  up,  in  fright  at  his  unseemly 
neighbourhood. 

The  lamp  sputtered,  a  tongue  of  flame  shot 
up  the  chimney,  and  the  rank  smell  of  smoke 
stole  through  the  room.  Farrell  retreated  to 
the  table,  and  dressed  the  wick  with  trembling 
fingers.  The  act  relieved  the  strain,  but  when 
he  turned  the  eyes  were  watching  still.  They 
bereaved  him  of  his  powers,  and  under  the  spell 
of  their  strange  and  horrible  attraction  he 
sweated  in  cold  beads.  They  burned  upon  him 
from  the  distance,  two  great  hollows  of  light, 
like  shining  stars,  holding  that  awful  look  of 
wistful  fear.  There  was  no  room  in  his  mind 
for  any  sensation  save  the  one ;  he  could  not 
think ;  he  had  no  reckoning  of  the  time  his 
agony  endured.  But  outside,  at  last,  the  bell  of 
a  clock-tower  boomed  far  away  and  some  hour 
was  struck.  And  suddenly  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  lustre  of  those  great  eyes  grew  dimmer; 


i 

62     THE    HOUSE    OF    SHAME 


/ 


the  look  of  sad  expectation  died  slowly  away. 
They  stared  with  a  kinder  light.  It  was  his 
fancy,  perhaps,  but  at  least  it  seemed  that  no 
strange  creature  now  regarded  him  with  un- 
familiar terror,  but  his  own  dear  Letty  watched 
him  again  with  soft  affectionate  eyes.  His 
limbs  grew  laxer  under  him  ;  and,  with  a  little 
sob  of  relief,  he  stole  forward,  an  uncertain  smile 
of  greeting  growing  round  his  mouth. 

'  Letty,'  he  whispered,  *  my  darling,  are  you 
better?' 

He  drew  near  the  bed,  and  put  out  his  arm 
eagerly  and  gently ;  but  in  an  instant  a  start 
rose  quickly  in  her  face,  the  eyes  kindled  with 
a  horrible  look  of  panic,  and  with  a  faint  re- 
pulsive gesture  of  the  hands  she  shrank  deeper 
into  the  wrappings.  A  little  sigh  followed : 
the  limbs  fell  slowly  back,  and  the  eyes,  with 
their  dreadful  terror,stared  vacantly  into  Farrell's 
ghastly  face. 

The  coverlet  went  on  rustling  as  the  bed- 
clothes settled  down. 


MR.    ATKINSON 

When  she  looked  round  again  the  young  man 
was  still  staring  at  her.  She  watched  him  fur- 
tively, and  though  at  intervals  his  attention 
wandered  to  the  stage,  it  strayed  back  to  her 
with  a  persistence  that  set  her  heart  beating 
under  the  vain  little  bodice.  She  felt  his 
admiration  to  be  distressing,  but  there  was 
nothing  impudent  in  the  stare,  and  tiny  thrills 
of  satisfaction  played  throughout  her  body. 
Between  the  turns  she  heard  Jack  talking  in 
jerks  of  conversation,  but  with  that  eloquent 
tribute  to  her  charms  at  hand,  her  mind  was 
too  vagrant  for  more  than  fragmentary  intelli- 
gence. He  was  very  superior,  she  reflected, 
quite  the  gentleman  in  quality ;  his  moustache 
betrayed  a  fine  acquaintance  with  the  world  ; 
and  still  he  had  the  wit  to  adore  with  discre- 
tion and  a  proper  feeling  of  respect.  Her 
obvious  distraction  at  last  drew  Jack's  attention. 

6S 


64  MR.    ATKINSON 

'What  yer  looking  at?'  he  asked.  'Ain't 
he  turned  out,  too  ?  Reach-my-downs  at  five 
bob!' 

Chuckling,  he  turned  to  join  in  the  welcome 
of  a  popular  dancer.  Laura  made  no  answer  ; 
but,  as  the  young  man's  eyes  were  now  upon 
the  performer,  regarded  his  dress  with  more 
care.  The  gibe  dropped  pointless ;  he  had 
beyond  doubt  the  air  of  distinction,  and  his 
clothes  were  'bespoke'  to  the  most  indolent 
observation.  Jack's  wit  was  rough  of  edge, 
and,  though  it  was  as  a  rule  the  gift  for  which 
she  most  admired  him,  it  jarred  now  upon  her 
taste.  She  retired  from  mental  touch  with 
him,  and  grew  dreamful  in  her  isolation.  She 
watched  a  shadow  in  the  corner  of  her  eyes, 
and  from  it  learned  the  movements  of  the 
stranger.  She  would  have  liked  to  meet  his 
gaze,  but  shrank  from  the  audacity  with  the 
diffidence  of  her  conscious  admiration. 

The  serio  sent  Jack  choking  into  laughter, 
and  he  was  fain  to  share  his  amusement  with  her. 

'Did  y'  hear  that?'  he  asked.  'Wasn't  it 
good?  We'll  have  him  again.  Didn't  you 
hear?' 

Laura  grimaced  with  some  disdain.   '  I  thought 


MR.    ATKINSON  6$ 

it  was  rather  vulgar,'  said  she,  and  concealed  as 
it  were,  in  the  thick  of  the  applause,  sent  a  shy 
glance  at  her  admirer  by  the  pillar. 

*  That  chap 's  had  about  enough  o'  standing, 
strikes  me,'  remarked  Jack,  following  her  gaze. 
*  Wants  to  show  hisself  off  as  a  swell.' 

In  the  lull  that  succeeded  the  exit  of  the 
favourite  he  professed  an  intolerable  thirst,  and 
forthwith  made  for  a  distant  bar.  Scarce  con- 
scious of  his  departure  Laura  held  her  eyes  a 
moment  full  upon  the  young  man,  who  left  his 
pillar  and  lounged  along  the  promenade  towards 
her.  A  thrill  took  her  at  the  heart,  but  she  con- 
templated the  footlights  with  a  fixed  vision. 
Something  dropped  into  an  empty  seat  beside 
her ;  she  turned  with  a  self-conscious  start,  and 
found  the  stranger  looking  at  her.  He  raised 
his  hat  and  took  the  cigar  from  his  mouth. 

'  Pretty  'ot  here.  Miss  ? '  he  said.  *  Wouldn't 
you  like  some  refreshment  ? ' 

*  He 's  gone  for  some,'  said  Laura  in  a  flutter. 
The  young  man  made  no  immediate  reply,  but 
after  a  pause  remarked — 

*  I  spotted  you  soon  as  ever  you  come  in.* 
Laura  smiled  timidly  and  shifted  her  bangle 

about  her  wrist. 

E 


6^  MR.    ATKINSON 

*  It 's  a  nice  programme,  ain't  it? '  she  said. 

*  I  dunno  now,'  responded  the  stranger  with 
a  note  of  sadness.  •  I  haven't  heard  much,  I  've 
been  too  busy  ever  since  you  come  in.'  He 
halted,  while  Laura  tried  to  direct  her  attention 
upon  the  stage.  'That  ain't  your  brother?' 
said  the  young  man  hopefully, 

'No,  only  a  friend,'  returned  Laura  with  a 
show  of  hesitation. 

'  I  suppose  I  shan't  see  you  again  ? '  said  the 
stranger  gloomily. 

Laura  had  nothing  to  answer.  At  this 
moment  she  was  aware  that  some  one  was 
pushing  hastily  past  the  occupants  of  the  seats 
upon  her  left,  and  of  a  sudden  Jack  stood 
before  her. 

'  Come  on,'  he  said  curtly,  *  let 's  get  out  of 
this.' 

She  rose  obediently  and  followed  him,  but  as 
she  passed  the  intruder  some  shaft  from  his 
eyes  made  her  pause.     She  put  out  her  hand. 

'  Good-bye,'  she  said,  and  gave  a  little  laugh. 

Withdrawn  from  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
stranger  Jack  stopped. 

'  What  did  you  talk  to  him  for  ? '  he  asked  in 
a  tone  of  annoyance. 


MR.    ATKINSON  67 

'  I  didn't ;  he  talked  to  me,'  was  her  answer. 

'  Thinks  a  lot  of  hisself/  he  went  on, '  but  he 
ain't  going  to  insult  my  girl — fat-head  ! ' 

Laura  was  filled  with  indignation  at  his  con- 
duct, but  the  excitement  of  the  incident  had 
thrown  her  at  his  mercy,  and  had  rendered  her 
incapable  of  original  action.  She  was  too  stirred 
by  the  occasion  to  express  her  feelings  in  sulks  ; 
she  took  a  seat  at  his  dictation,  and  tried  to 
resume  her  interest  in  the  programme.  She 
would  have  liked  to  peer  into  the  crowd  for  the 
disconsolate  stranger,  but  was  forbidden  by  her 
own  visible  emotions  ;  and  it  was  by  a  pure 
accident  that  she  espied  him  drinking  at  the 
bar  almost  within  hand-reach  of  her  dainty 
skirts.  Jack,  too,  had  noticed  this  proximity, 
and  she  glanced  at  him  fearfully.  He  made 
a  step  as  though  to  address  the  obnoxious 
young  man,  but  suddenly  turned  and  took 
Laura's  arm. 

*  I  'm  off  out  of  this,'  he  said.    *  Come  along.' 

She  made  no  protest ;  her  feelings  were  too 
strong  for  words.  She  left  with  her  sweetheart, 
but,  as  they  issued  by  the  doors,  could  not 
refrain  a  glance  behind  her.  It  was  so  preci- 
pitate that  she  got  only  a  confused  sense  of 


68  MR.    ATKINSON 

the  audience,  and  the  next  instant  they  were 
in  the  street.  Jack  went  at  a  rush,  an  angry 
colour  in  his  face. 

'  I  believe  you  meant  encouraging  him  ! '  he 
said.  She  answered  nothing,  and  he  broke  out 
rudely.  *  Don't  you  see,  he  wanted  you  to  give 
yourself  away,  you  fool ! ' 

In  the  cool  air,  and  removed  from  the  em- 
barrassment of  a  public  audience,  she  was  able 
to  steady  her  indignation  into  words. 

*  I  '11  trouble  you  not  to  call  me  a  fool,  Jack 
Atki'son,'  said  she  ;  '  and  if  you  '11  please  leave 
go  of  my  arm  I  '11  be  obliged.' 

'  Got  the  hump  now,  I  s'pose,'  he  replied. 

For  answer  she  wrenched  her  arm  from  him 
and  walked  on  in  silence.  Jack  moved  by  her 
side  uncomfortably.  Now  that  the  incentive 
of  his  jealousy  was  gone  he  was  returning  to 
his  normal  mood  of  affectionate  good-nature, 
and  was  disturbed  by  his  sweetheart's  anger. 
Once  or  twice  he  made  an  effort  to  catch  her 
hand  as  she  swung  along,  but  each  time  was 
repulsed,  and  retreated  with  an  awkward  sense 
of  shame. 

'Look  here,  Laura,'  he  said  at  last.  'This 
ain't  going  on,  is  it  ?     You  don't  mean  to  make 


MR.    ATKINSON  69 

anything  out  of  this  ?     I  didn't  mean  any  harm 
—straight,  I  didn't' 

*  You  're  a  nice  sort  of  chap  to  come  out  with,' 
was  her  reply.  '  No  one 's  to  look  at  a  girl,  or 
it 's  as  good  as  an  insult.  Think  I  can't  take 
care  of  myself,  I  s'pose  ?  Think  I  dunno  what 's 
proper  for  a  lady  ? ' 

*  Well,'  said  Jack,  a  sense  of  injury  mounting 
at  this  rebuff,  *  and  I  know  what 's  proper  con- 
duct for  a  gentleman — so  there.' 

There  seemed  nothing  more  to  be  said,  and 
without  further  conversation  they  accomplished 
their  journey.  At  the  shop  door,  Laura  rang 
with  an  irritated  jerk.  She  had  not  offered 
him  her  lips,  and  he  stood  irresolutely  on  the 
pavement. 

*  I  s'pose  you  're  going  on  ? '  she  said  in- 
differently. 

'  Yes,  it  ain't  my  practice  to  force  my  wel- 
come,' was  his  moody  answer. 

With  a  curt  good-night  Laura  closed  the 
door,  and  he  strode  angrily  down  the  street. 
A  moment  after,  it  stole  softly  open  and  she 
was  looking  into  the  darkness.  Jack's  foot- 
steps were  sounding  on  the  flags,  and  a  lamp 
flickered  unsteadily  across  the  way. 


70  MR.    ATKINSON 

As  she  shut  the  door  again  she  caught  sight 
of  a  blacker  shadow  clinging  beneath  the  cover 
of  the  gaslight.  Something  jumped  into  her 
heart ;  she  ran  upstairs,  and  entering  her  room 
threw  open  the  window.  The  breath  of  the 
night  touched  her  hot  cheeks,  and  over  the 
road  fanned  the  gas  aslant  into  a  flare.  The 
shadow  leaning  against  the  post  started  into 
sudden  life  under  the  blaze,  and  took  off  its  hat. 

Laura  closed  the  window  with  a  start,  and  sat 
down  on  her  bed  quickly.  She  had  come  in 
with  a  sullen  sense  of  annoyance,  but  had  no 
desire  to  discuss  Jack  with  herself.  Outside 
stood  that  shadow  watching  her  window,  and 
in  her  thoughts  was  no  room  save  for  the  magic 
of  this  devotion.  She  tingled  with  such  sensa- 
tions as  she  had  not  felt  since  Jack  had  suddenly 
put  his  arm  round  her  waist  some  six  months 
before ;  and  in  the  resumption  of  this  forgotten 
and  exulting  thrill  she  fell  asleep — triumphant. 

On  his  passage  to  his  work  next  morning. 
Jack,  as  was  his  custom,  halted  before  the 
grocer's  shop  to  whistle  his  early  serenade. 
No  signal  answered  his  devout  performance, 
at  which  he  repeated  the  air  with  misgivings. 
Thereupon  a  face  appeared  at  the  window  on 


MR.    ATKINSON  71 

the  second  floor,  and  a  white  frilled  arm,  thrust 
through  the  aperture,  waved  at  him  a  hand- 
kerchief. She  had  been  wont  to  kiss  her 
fingers  to  his  salutation,  and,  as  he  reflected 
upon  the  change,  his  head  sank  sulkily  on  his 
shoulders,  and  he  slouched  along  the  street  at 
a  furious  pace.  All  day  was  he  held  from  sight 
of  her,  and  the  quarrel  lay  heavy  on  his  heart ; 
but  in  the  evening  he  went  round  to  the  shop 
to  patch  at  once  that  horrible  breach.  Laura 
met  him  pleasantly,  and  suffered  his  embrace 
without  remonstrance. 

Neither  made  any  reference  to  the  misunder- 
standing of  the  previous  night ;  it  seemed  that 
it  had  dropped  into  oblivion  in  this  renewal  of 
their  love.  The  shadow  had  been  too  im- 
material, too  visionary ;  her  fancy  stirred  and 
settled  ;  for  this  substantial,  measurable  devo- 
tion the  flimsy  fabric  of  her  dream  was  too 
poor  an  exchange. 

For  the  next  few  days  Laura  did  not  fail  at 
the  window  with  her  morning  greeting ;  and 
Jack,  wholly  recovered  from  his  fears,  had 
fallen  back  upon  his  old  temper  of  facetious 
affection.  But  one  evening,  within  a  week  of 
the  untoward  incident,  he  called  unexpectedly 


72  MR.    ATKINSON 

upon  his  sweetheart,  and  entering  the  small 
parlour  with  some  precipitancy,  stopped  aghast 
in  the  doorway;  for  there,  in  the  laughing 
company  of  Laura  and  her  mother,  was  the 
obnoxious  stranger  of  the  music-hall.  In  the 
thick  of  some  jest  he  ceased,  and  met  Jack's 
eyes  uneasily ;  but  Laura  started  alertly  to  her 
feet.  Her  eyes  sparkled,  her  cheeks  flushed 
red ;  she  was  plainly  under  some  unusual 
excitement.  For  a  moment  she  stammered 
with  an  access  of  confusion,  but  recovering,  ran 
on  gaily. 

'  O  Jack,'  said  she, '  you  did  rush  us !  We  've 
been  laughing  fit  to  split.  This  is  a  friend  of 
mine,  Mr.  Atki'son — Mr.  Field.' 

*Go  along,  sit  down.  Jack,'  said  Laura's 
mother. 

Jack  took  a  seat  in  silence,  fixing  his  eyes  on 
the  vacant  wall. 

'  You  was  telling  us ' — began  Laura's  mother. 

*  P'raps  Mr.  Atki'son  has  heard  it,'  said  the 
stranger  politely. 

*  Oh  no,  he  ain't,'  returned  the  mother. 

Jack  made  no  response,  and  she  pushed 
jocularly  at  his  shoulder,  *  Where 've  you  left 
your  tongue  ? '  she  inquired. 


MR.    ATKINSON  73 

*  Leave  him  alone.  It  ain't  his  day  out.  You 
go  on,  Mr.  Field,'  said  Laura,  bending  her 
shining  eyes  upon  the  young  man. 

Mr.  Field  resumed  his  narrative,  which  was 
broken  at  points  by  the  women's  laughter,  while 
Jack  sat  staring  blankly  at  the  wall.  About 
him  the  talk  grew  livelier,  but  though  every 
word  and  action  of  the  party  burned  into  his 
jealous  soul,  he  was  at  the  elaborate  pretence  of 
hearing  nothing. 

'  What  sulks  you  've  got ! '  remarked  Laura's 
mother. 

Laura  herself  was  in  gay  spirits,  and  to  all 
outward  showing  free  of  embarrassment.  She 
was  not  in  the  habit  of  closely  inspecting 
her  feelings,  and  the  delicacy  of  the  situation 
escaped  her  notice.  She  joined  her  mother  in 
rallying  her  sweetheart  upon  the  temper  he  was 
displaying. 

'  Oh,  this  is  stupid  behavin','  said  she  im- 
patiently. 'Why  don't  you  talk.  Jack?  It's 
my  go  to-day.' 

'Seems  to  me,'  said  Mr.  Atkinson,  sullenly, 
'there's  been  enough  of  talking.  I  can't  gab 
all  day  like  some  people.' 

'  Hark  at  him,'   said   the  mother,  laughing. 


74  MR.    ATKINSON 

'Ain't  he  in  a  bad  temper?  That's  one  for 
you,  Mr.  Field.' 

Jack's  mouth  relaxed  ;  he  had  a  vague  sense 
that  he  had  discomfited  his  rival,  and  the 
thought  improved  his  mood.  His  eyes  wan- 
dered all  over  the  stranger  contemptuously,  and 
rested  on  his  patent  leather  boots. 

'You  oughter  wear  them.  Jack,'  said  the 
mother,  placidly,  noticing  his  gaze. 

*  Pooh  !  '  returned  he,  and  looked  at 
Laura. 

*  Well,  haven't  you  got  something  what  you 
can  tell  us  ? '  she  asked. 

Jack  mumbled  inaudibly. 

*  What  say  ? '  said  Laura. 
Jack  got  upon  his  feet. 

'  Look  here,  I  'm  going  off,'  he  said  brusquely. 
'  I  've  got  some  one  waiting  for  me,  and  I  can't 
afford  to  hang  on  any  longer.' 

*  You  go  on,'  said  Laura's  mother,  staring  at 
him  with  amiable  laughter. 

Jack  set  his  eyes  on  Laura,  who  said  nothing. 
He  took  a  step  to  the  door,  but  even  in  his 
sore  irritation  the  strain  of  so  cold  a  departure 
was  too  severe  for  his  discipline.  He  turned 
and  went  up  to  her. 


MR.    ATKINSON  75 

'  Grood-night/  he  said,  and  endeavoured  to 
draw  her  to  him. 

'  Leave  go,  Jack,*  said  she,  withdrawing  from 
the  menace  of  a  kiss,  '  don't  be  stupid.  You 
do  fool  me.  I  was  just  all  to  rights.  Leave 
go,  I  say.' 

She  snapped  away  her  hands  with  some 
asperity,  and  made  a  show  of  smoothing  her 
dress.  Mr.  Field  looked  on  with  embarrassed 
eyes,  and  the  mother  was  back  in  her  chair 
shaking  with  merriment.  Jack  left  the  room 
quickly. 

The  window  was  shuttered  close  and  vacant 
as  he  went  by  next  morning,  and  the  jealous 
anger  hardened  upon  him ;  he  made  no  call 
at  the  house  that  evening,  according  to  his 
unbroken  habit  since  their  engagement.  But 
upon  the  second  day  of  this  abstinence  love 
wore  his  pride  into  rags,  and  he  plaintively 
betook  himself  to  the  little  shop.  Laura's 
mother  was  serving  a  customer  across  the 
counter,  and  greeted  him  with  affable  indiffer- 
ence.    He  stopped. 

'  Where  'd  Laura  pick  up  that  fellow  ? '  he 
asked  bluffly. 

'  That  you  ? '  inquired  the  woman.     '  I  dunno, 


76  MR.    ATKINSON 

Jack.     He  come  in  to  buy  something,  and  she 
seen  him  and  reco'nised  him.* 
Jack  snorted. 

*  He 's  a  polite  chap — quite  the  gentleman/ 
went  on  the  mother.  *  Why  didn't  you  come 
in  last  night?' 

'  Did  he  come  ? '  asked  Jack. 

*  Yes.  He  come  to  ask  us  to  go  to  the  'all. 
He 's  in  the  linen-drapery,'  said  Laura's  mother 
irrelevantly. 

Jack  pushed  through  the  shop  and  went  into 
the  parlour.  Laura,  at  her  ease  on  the  sofa, 
was  reading  the  Family  Herald,  and  flashed 
upon  him  after  his  long  absence  with  so  sudden 
a  charm  that  his  heart  melted  within  him.  He 
went  up  and  threw  his  arm  round  her.  Laura 
struggled. 

*  Don't ! '  said  she  crossly,  and  pushed  him 
away. 

Cowed  and  dejected,  he  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  while  she  continued  her  reading 
with  an  ostentatious  air  of  inattention. 

*  I  say,'  he  said  at  last ;  '  come  and  see  the 
Brothers  German,  Laura.' 

She  shook  her  head,  her  eyes  still  upon  her 
page. 


MR.    ATKINSON  TJ 

*  I  ain't  got  time,'  she  replied. 

'You've  got  time  to  go  with  that  fool  of  a 
linen-draping  chap,'  retorted  Jack  furiously. 

Laura  started. 

'  Who  told  you  I  was  going  with  him  ? '  she 
asked. 

*  Your  mother  did,'  was  his  answer. 

'She  don't  know  anything  about  it,'  said 
Laura  with  embarrassed  dignity. 

Jack  made  no  answer;  he  was  kicking  the 
leg  of  the  sofa  viciously.  His  blood  ran  fiercely, 
but  he  did  not  clearly  see  his  way  to  any 
retort  or  action.  Under  feint  of  absorption 
she  watched  him  anxiously  out  of  the  narrows 
of  her  eyes. 

'  You  won't  come  ? '  he  said  at  length. 

'  I  got  too  much  to  do,'  she  answered ;  and 
added  presently,  '  I  '11  go  another  night' 

He  went  out  and  slammed  the  door  with  an 
oath. 

Events  marched  rapidly  for  them  both. 
Though  he  paid  no  visit  to  the  grocer's  shop 
during  the  next  few  days,  Jack  hung  about 
the  neighbourhood  from  the  fall  of  evening, 
and  once  or  twice  he  saw  the  linen-draper 
enter    by   the   door   of  which    he    had    once 


78  MR.    ATKINSON 

had  the  liberty.  All  day  the  jealous  thought 
pursued  him  at  his  work,  and  at  night  entered 
into  his  soul  and  gnawed  upon  it  He  dashed 
home  at  midnight  embittered  and  reckless. 
Hour  after  hour  he  sat  in  the  public-house 
across  the  way,  drinking  himself  into  a  dull 
and  vacant  animal,  and  watching  the  light  in 
her  bedroom  window.  He  wrote  a  letter  in 
terms  of  the  wildest  love  and  indignation, 
to  which  no  answer  was  vouchsafed.  Some 
two  nights  later,  as  he  kept  his  faithful  guard, 
flushed  and  agog  with  whisky,  he  saw  the 
door  open  over  the  way,  and  Laura  and  his 
rival  passed  into  the  street  He  rose  and 
went  out.  They  walked  towards  the  main 
thoroughfare  that  ran  at  the  bottom  of  the  road, 
and  he  stole  after  them.  Upon  their  track  he 
followed  into  the  thick  of  the  town,  and  entered 
behind  them  at  the  doors  of  a  music-hall. 

From  the  promenade  he  watched  them  with 
the  eyes  of  a  lynx.  No  expression  of  their 
features,  no  turn  of  their  heads,  escaped  his 
jealous  gaze.  He  drank  at  the  bar  and  spied 
upon  them  still.  Their  relations  seemed 
intimate ;  she  giggled  and  nudged  him,  he 
looked  affectionately  upon  her  ;  she  tapped  his 


MR.    ATKINSON  79 

cheek  with  her  programme ;  he  insinuated  his 
arm  behind  her  seat.  The  wretched  creature 
could  refrain  no  further ;  the  spirit  clouded 
his  remaining  senses ;  the  arteries  beat  in 
his  forehead.  He  pushed  swiftly  forward, 
white  with  rage,  and  emptied  his  glass  in  the 
face  of  the  linen-draper.  The  victim  spluttered 
and  jumped  to  his  feet  and  Laura  gave  a  little 
shriek — but  on  the  one  instant  Jack  was  in 
the  hands  of  a  tall  policeman  and  the  next 
was  panting  hatless  in  the  drizzle  without 

'What  a  coward!'  said  Laura  with  trepi- 
dation, and  earnestly  scanning  the  face  of  her 
companion  for  traces  of  the  injury.  'Did  he 
hurt  you?' 

'  No,'  said  the  linen-draper  complacently.  '  It 
ain't  much.  Spoilt  my  collar  and  tie  though, 
dirty  beast ! ' 

*  Brute ! '  assented  Laura. 

'Look  here,'  said  Mr.  Field,  who  had  seen 
in  this  accident  a  divine  opportunity.  'What 
d'you  say?  Now's  the  time  to  tell  him  it's 
off — see  ? ' 

Laura  looked  anxious. 

'  You  never  liked  him,  you  know,'  he  ex- 
plained. 


80  MR.    ATKINSON 

*  No,'  said  Laura  taking  courage,  '  only  him 
and  me  kept  company.  I  didn't  know  anything 
then.    You  ain't  responsible  for  that,  are  you  ? ' 

'  No,  might  as  well  be  for  all  you  do  when 
you  're  a  kid,'  answered  Mr.  Field.  *  You  write 
him  a  letter  to-night' 

Laura  made  no  answer  ;  he  took  hold  of  her 
hands,  and  she  met  his  look  with  a  smile. 

Jack  crept  home  miserably.  His  passion 
had  flown  out  in  that  one  pitiful  exhibition, 
and  his  mind  had  come  to  a  stage  of  decrepi- 
tude. He  threw  himself  upon  his  bed,  damp 
and  dishevelled.  Giddy  with  the  spirit  he  had 
taken,  his  head  went  round  and  round,  and  when 
he  closed  his  eyes  he  had  a  sick  sensation  of 
falling  in  space.  His  mind  declined  to  fix 
itself;  no  definite  impression  did  he  get  from 
his  thoughts.  The  linen-draper,  Laura,  the 
policeman  who  had  thrust  him  forth,  swam 
in  his  brain  together.  He  realised  that  he  had 
been  ousted  from  the  affections  of  his  sweet- 
heart, but  the  fact  conveyed  no  meaning  to 
him,  touched  upon  no  emotion.  A  carcass 
of  vague  thoughts,  he  lay  and  let  the  hours 
go  by,  until  at  length  he  fell  asleep  from  the 
sheer  fatigue  of  his  rude  passions. 


MR.    ATKINSON  8i 

But  in  the  morning  his  misery  came  back  to 
him,  active,  unappeased.  Indeed,  almost  ere  he 
definitely  awoke  rifts  opened  in  the  vacancy  of 
his  brain  through  which  his  trouble  lowered 
upon  him.  He  had  the  intermittent  sense  of  a 
horror  somewhere  close  and  imminent.  When 
he  arose  he  looked  out  of  his  window  upon  a 
smiling  street ;  the  sun  shone  brightly,  and  the 
primroses  in  the  window-sill  across  the  way  blew 
softly  in  the  morning  air.  He  was  abandoned 
by  this  jocund  world,  and  might  only  sit  and 
watch  it  from  afar.  A  pain  stirred  dully  in  his 
heart,  and  when  he  thought  upon  his  rejection, 
cut  into  him  with  a  sharp  point  Mechanically 
he  took  his  breakfast,  and  departed  to  his  work, 
a  chaos  of  distractions.  Nothing  fell  into  its 
proper  place  in  his  mind  ;  the  rude  street  cries 
and  noises  of  the  traffic  touched  him  on  the 
raw ;  at  each  interruption  upon  the  dizzy 
course  of  his  brain  he  would  start — the  intrusion 
grew  for  a  moment  into  monstrous  significance, 
the  one  fact  in  his  environment ;  and  then  the 
fluttered  imagination  sank  and  fell,  and  the 
ceaseless  round  was  resumed.  As  he  performed 
his  duties  at  the  counter,  one  of  his  fellows 
chaffed  him  upon  his  melancholy. 
F 


82  MR.    ATKINSON 

'  I  've  'ad  a  bad  time,'  he  answered  listlessly. 
'  This  world  ain't  all  skittles.  I  dunno  but  what 
I  'd  like  to  do  for  myself.' 

The  circling  anguish — for  it  was  nothing 
more  definite  than  that — deadened  his  brain 
and  left  him  stupid  over  his  work ;  and  at 
midday  without  warning  he  vanished  and  made 
his  way  home.  For  hours  he  lay  upon  his  bed, 
silent  and  consumed  with  pain,  until  the  sun 
fell  over  the  city  and  the  grey  twilight  diffused 
about  the  streets.  At  last  in  his  heart  there 
rose  suddenly  a  flood  of  pity  for  himself,  and 
he  burst  into  tears.  The  pain  had  grown  so 
taut  that  in  the  end  it  had  snapped,  and  he 
looked  out  on  the  shouting  road  with  eyes  that 
saw  now  and  ears  that  heard.  The  soft  air 
brushed  his  face,  and  with  wet  eyes  he  hummed 
a  pathetic  ditty  of  the  halls.  Wait  till  the 
clouds  roll  by,  Jennie^  rang  in  his  hearing  most 
melancholy,  with  a  peculiar  gratification.  He 
sang  it  through  persistently,  over  and  over 
again,  crooning  the  refrain  with  sad  gusto. 
By  and  by,  as  the  lights  started  up  in  the 
lamps,  a  voice  hailed  him  from  the  pavement. 

'  Chi-yike ! '  it  called, '  Chi-yike ! ' 

He  looked  down  upon  a  chum  with  whom 


MR.    ATKINSON  83 

he  had  been  wont  to  undertake  many  jovial 
adventures.  He  shook  his  head  at  the  beckoning 
finger. 

*  I  ain't  coming  out,'  he  said ;  and,  swelling 
with  a  miserable  pride,  *  I  'm  smashed  up,  Jim,' 
he  added.  'Don't  you  be  surprised  what  yer 
'ear  of  me.' 

*  You  are  a  crock ! '  commented  the  friend, 
and  then  as  Jack  made  no  movement  to  descend, 
*  So  long ! '  he  added  and  slipped  off,  whistling. 

Jack  sang  on  drearily.  All  the  sentimental 
songs  in  his  repertory  were  called  to  his  service. 
One  after  the  other  he  crooned  them  in  the 
growing  darkness,  and  when  he  had  exhausted 
his  list  he  began  it  again.  He  had  no  doubt, 
now  that  he  could  think,  that  his  was  the  most 
tragic  fate  in  the  world,  and  that  this  music  was 
his  swan  song,  wherein  his  passion  and  his  love 
were  for  the  last  time  expressed. 

At  nine  a  letter  was  pushed  beneath  the  door. 
At  a  glance  he  saw  it  was  from  Laura,  but  so 
extreme  a  stage  had  he  reached  in  his  self- 
commiseration  that,  so  far  from  clutching  at 
a  last  hope,  he  had  even  a  desire  that  the 
communication  should  consort  with  his  gloom. 
Indeed,   it  was   so;    for  the   letter  had   been 


84  MR.    ATKINSON 

inspired  by  liis  rival  the  linen-draper,  and 
rounded  the  tragedy  to  a  conclusion. 

'After  such  behaviour  as  last  night,'  she 
wrote  in  her  sprawling  characters,  'you  won't 
be  surprised  at  me  breaking  it  off.' 

No,  he  was  not  surprised ;  he  was  even 
conscious  of  a  trivial  gladness  that  the  reverse 
should  be  so  complete.  His  blood  ran  senti- 
mentally ;  he  could  indulge  at  once  his  love 
and  his  supreme  misery.  His  passion  could 
meet  no  return  from  Laura,  but  at  least  he  had 
the  right  of  neighbourhood,  the  privilege  of 
possession.  He  had  no  animosity  in  his  heart 
against  her ;  he  had  not  even  an  active  feeling 
of  jealousy  for  his  supplanter.  But  he  should 
like  to  be  near  her — with  her  pretty  ways, 
her  lovely  hair,  the  manifold  attractions  upon 
the  memory  of  which  he  lingered  at  this 
moment. 

The  melancholy  ditties  reminded  him  of  his 
final  part  in  the  drama,  and  as  he  breathed  them 
softly  he  could  see  her  in  the  little  parlour, 
alert,  so  sweet,  listening  for  a  footstep.  The 
handle  turned  at  the  door,  and  the  linen-draper 
entered.  She  flew  to  meet  him  ;  Jack's  plaintive 
murmur  ceased  suddenly.     He  rose,  took  from 


MR.    ATKINSON  85 

the  mantelpiece  his  cheap  revolver,  and  went 
out. 

«  «  «  «  » 

Laura's  mother  looked  up  in  mild  astonish- 
ment as  he  entered  the  shop. 

'  Well,  you  are  a  stranger,  Jack,'  she  said ; 
*  'bout  time  you  did  make  it  up,  I  should  say.' 

He  passed  through  with  a  mechanical  saluta- 
tion, and  entered  the  house  beyond.  Laura  sat 
alone  in  the  parlour  as  he  had  pictured  her  in 
his  thought.  When  he  entered  she  started  to 
her  feet,  coloured,  and  sat  down  again. 

'  I  got  your  letter,'  he  said  quietly  enough. 

'  I  wonder  you  come,'  she  answered  without 
looking  at  him. 

'  You  've  taken  him  on  ? '  he  asked. 

She  made  no  answer.  His  eyes  glittered  and 
his  pulse  throbbed  heavily. 

'S'pose  you  think  you've  done  better,'  he 
said 

'You  ain't  a  gentleman,  or  you  wouldn't 
come  here  after  all  what  I  said,'  she  answered. 

He  was  drinking  in  all  her  actions  with 
perfervid  gaze.  She  looked  so  sweet  and  fresh, 
and  she  had  now  passed  into  the  hands  of  his 
rival.     She  rose  and  made  for  the  door. 


86  MR.    ATKINSON 

'  If  you  ain't  going,  I  am,'  she  said  shortly. 

He  put  out  a  hand  and  stopped  her. 

'You  leave  me  be,  Mr.  Atki'son,'  she  cried 
indignantly.     *  Don't  you  touch  me  now.' 

For  answer  he  pulled  her  to  him  quickly, 
and  drew  his  revolver  from  his  pocket.  In  her 
struggle  she  saw  the  weapon  and  gave  a  sharp 
scream.  A  fierce  pulse  of  exultation  thrilled 
through  him  ;  he  put  the  barrel  to  her  forehead 
and  pulled  the  trigger.  Her  fingers  fastened 
convulsively  on  his  arm,  and,  ere  the  report 
died  away,  it  was  followed  by  another.  The 
sounds  brought  Laura's  mother  to  the  door, 
her  face  white,  her  eyes  bulging  from  her  head. 
Motionless,  she  stared  fearfully  at  the  two 
bodies. 


THE  EDGE  OF  THE  PRECIPICE 

Galworthy  threw  open  the  window  and 
looked  down.  The  street  was  very  still  and 
dark,  but  a  black  patch  of  deeper  shadow 
filled  the  doorway. 

'  Who  is  it  ? '  he  called.    '  Is  it  Moreton  ? ' 
'  Please  let  me  in,'  said  a  voice  from  below. 
It  rang  tremulously  in  the  quietude,  and  his 
pulse  quickened  at  the  recognition. 

*  Why,'  he  said, '  it  is — surely ' 

*  It  is  Betty  Verinder.   Oh,  be  quick,  be  quick  ! ' 
He  sprang  from  the  window,  and,  flinging 

back  his  door,  ran  down  the  stairs  precipitately. 
A  woman  stepped  out  of  the  portico  into  the 
twilight  of  the  hall. 

'You  are  astonished,'  she  said,  with  a  little 
laugh.  '  No  wonder.  How  late  is  it  ?  Never 
mind.    Take  me  upstairs.' 

*  Nothing  has  happened  ? '  he  asked  eagerly. 
*  There  is  no  one  ill  ? ' 

87 


88    THE   EDGE   OF   THE   PRECIPICE 

*0h,  let  us  go  upstairs!  No,'  she  gasped 
impatiently ;  *  I  've  come  on  a  midnight  adven- 
ture.    Don't  you  ever  ? ' 

A  queer  sense  of  elation  possessed  him  as 
he  led  the  way  to  his  rooms,  but  he  could 
not  have  determined  whether  it  was  wholly 
pleasant  or  in  part  compounded  of  pain.  The 
girl  flung  herself  excitedly  upon  a  sofa.  She 
put  her  hands  over  her  eyes,  and  the  cloak 
slipped  from  her  shoulders,  leaving  bare  her 
soft  white  neck  and  arms.  His  brain  whirled 
at  the  sudden  apparition,  and  for  a  time  he 
merely  looked  at  her,  speechless. 

*Why  don't  you  ask  why  I  have  come?' 
she  said  at  length  from  between  her  fingers ; 
and  then,  tossing  back  her  head,  she  faced  him 
boldly,  as  it  were  resolutely,  a  spot  of  scarlet 
burning  in  either  cheek.  'Don't  you  think  it 
very  bad  and  mad  ?  I  'm  sure  you  do.  But 
I — I  think  I  was  made  to  break  all  laws — all, 
every  one  of  them — Commandments  and  all.' 
And  she  leaned  back  deeper  into  the  sofa. 

'  I  'm  very  glad  to  see  you.  Miss  Verinder,' 
said  Galworthy,  contriving  at  last  to  recall  his 
wits.  '  It  was  a  happy  thought  of  yours  to  call 
and  cheer  my  loneliness.' 


THE   EDGE   OF  THE   PRECIPICE    89 

His  words  were  stupidly  conventional,  but 
he  could  not  take  his  eyes  from  her,  and  she 
winced  before  him. 

*  Yes,'  she  replied,  and  ran  on  impetuous : 
*  I  was  at  the  Ormerods.  You  know  them. 
Bessie 's  a  silly  girl,  but  I  'm  fond  of  her.  She 
took  too  much  champagne  to-night  I  didn't, 
though  you  might  think  it' 

'  I  didn't  think  it  at  all,'  he  stammered,  '  I 
assure  you.* 

He  met  her  glance,  and  she  seemed  as 
though  she  would  have  spoken,  but  forbore. 
She  shifted  uneasily ;  her  feet  stirred  incessantly 
beneath  her  dress.  He  had  always  particularly 
admired  her  eyes,  so  large  and  full  of  light ; 
and  now  they  looked  upon  him,  he  fancied, 
with  dumb  and  private  entreaties.  What  they 
would  have  said  he  could  not  have  phrased : 
he  was  but  conscious  that  they  pleaded  with 
him.  She  rose  with  a  little  shiver,  and  went 
forward  to  the  fireplace. 

*  Mr.  Galworthy,  may  I  just  look  in  your 
glass  ? '  she  said.  '  I  hope  my  hair  is  more 
or  less  orderly.     Oh,  how  dreadful  1 ' 

He  turned  away  with  a  quick  instinct  of 
intelligence,  and   fumbled    among   his   books. 


90    THE    EDGE   OF   THE   PRECIPICE 

The  girl  stared  mutely  at  her  own  reflection 
in  the  mirror ;  she  parted  her  lips  and  sighed  ; 
she  pushed  her  hair  back  from  her  high  fore- 
head. Her  breath  came  easier ;  she  patted 
her  cheeks  softly,  and  drew  her  fingers  across 
her  weary  eyelids.  Then  she  resumed  her 
seat,  and  at  the  sound  of  her  voice  he  came 
forward. 

'  I  want  you  to  come  and  dine  with  us  on 
Friday/  she  began  ; '  my  mother  is  very  anxious 
that  you  should,  and  you  have  never  come  to 
see  us  for  ages.     I  wonder  why  ? ' 

Her  voice  was  calm  and  deliberate  ;  her  face 
subdued  into  an  appearance  of  quiet  interest ; 
her  whole  aspect  breathed  now  of  serene  self- 
possession. 

He  stammered  a  little  in  his  reply — 

'  I  should  be  delighted.  Your  mother  is  very 
kind.    Yes  ;  it 's  a  long  time  since  I  saw  you.' 

'  How  long  have  you  known  me  ? '  she  asked 
abruptly. 

*  I  think  it 's  a  year.' 

*  Yes,  a  year.  You  don't  know  me  very  well, 
or  you  wouldn't  have  been  surprised  at  seeing 
me.  I  don't  like  my  friends  to  leave  me,  and 
I  thought  I  would  take  you  by  storm.     I  did.' 


THE   EDGE   OF  THE    PRECIPICE    91 

He  laughed  softly,  reassured  by  her  self- 
possession.  After  all,  it  was  not  so  wonderful, 
but  it  was  very  pleasant. 

'And  now,'  said  he  gaily,  'do  let  me  offer 
you  some  refreshments.' 

*  Refreshments ! '  she  cried,  throwing  up  her 
hands.  *  Have  I  not  dined,  and  in  state  ?  And 
have  we  not  had  champagnes  and  wines  in- 
numerable ? '  She  looked  at  him  quizzically ; 
then  she  stopped  suddenly,  and  her  smile  died 
away.  *  Yes  ;  perhaps  I  might.  I  've  not  really 
had  much  champagne,  though  you  mayn't  be- 
lieve me — not  nearly  so  much  as  the  Fenton 
girls.'  And  she  tittered  with  a  return  of  her 
former  embarrassment. 

He  poured  her  out  a  glass  of  wine ;  but  he 
did  not  see  her  hand  tremble  as  she  took  it. 

'  The  Fenton  girls  were  bold  and  noisy,'  she 
resumed.  *  You  should  have  heard  them.  I 
know  my  own  reputation  pretty  well,  I  think  : 
Society  is  a  kind  of  whispering- gallery.  But, 
my  dear  Mr.  Galworthy,  Betty  Verinder  re- 
treated from  the  field  to-night,  buying  an 
ignoble  peace  by  surrender.  Lady  Wilmot 
simpered  and  stuck  in  the  palate  for  all  the 
world  like  a  stale  sweetmeat.     She  wears  the 


92    THE   EDGE   OF  THE   PRECIPICE 

airs  of  a  rose  blowing  in  a  wilderness.  Reputa- 
tions went  up  in  smoke  with  the  cigarettes, 
and  Kitty's  favourite  Canon  was  distracted 
between  her  sentimental  eyes  and  prayers  for 
the  company.' 

Galworthy  laughed  oddly.  He  had  not  known 
her  long,  and  she  was  given  to  shocking  him. 
He  took  her  for  a  most  audacious  wit,  with  the 
talk  of  the  town  in  her  ears.  She  ceased,  and 
rose  unexpectedly  from  her  seat. 

'  I  must  go,'  she  said  hurriedly.  *  I  don't 
know  what  possessed  me  to  come  in.' 

*  Please  don't,*  he  urged.  '  At  any  rate,  finish 
your  wine.' 

She  met  his  look  for  a  moment,  and  sank 
slowly  back  into  the  chair.  An  unusual  sparkle 
animated  his  sober  eyes  ;  his  colour  had  quick- 
ened as  he  spoke.  For  a  moment  she  said 
nothing,  and  then — 

'Why  have  you  not  been  to  see  us  ?*  she  asked. 

He  put  his  arm  upon  the  mantelpiece  and 
looked  into  the  empty  grate. 

*  Has  it  been  long  ? '  he  inquired. 

'  Ages,'  she  returned,  and  encountered  his 
eyes  once  more.  The  sparkle  spread  into 
broader  waves  of  light. 


THE   EDGE   OF   THE   PRECIPICE    93 

*  I  'm  sorry,  but  I ' 

*Why  didn't  you  come  last  week  when  we 
asked  you  ?  * 

*  I  was  afraid,'  he  said  simply. 

*  Afraid ! '  she  echoed,  with  a  feint  of  levity. 
'  Afraid  !  and  of  what  ? ' 

It  was  as  though  she  had  put  the  question 
without  the  expectation  of  a  reply,  and  indeed 
with  but  partial  consciousness  of  her  own 
words.  But  he  answered,  shading  his  eyes 
with  his  hand — 

*  Afraid  of  meeting  you  again,  afraid  of  caring 
for  you  too  much.' 

He  spoke  in  low  tones;  and  she  answered 
in  tones  as  low,  her  eyes  fluttering  over  the 
patch  of  carpet  towards  which  she  had  bent 
her  head — 

*  Why  not  ? '  she  asked. 

*  There  are  so  many  others.  I  haven't  much 
opinion  of  myself  I  know  how  stupid  I  am. 
Who  am  I  to  have  any  confidence?  I  was 
afraid.  Miss  Verinder.' 

A  spasm  contracted  her  shoulders,  as  if  she 
had  felt  a  sudden  chill.  She  bent  her  head  still 
lower. 

'You  needn't  have   been  afraid,'  she  said. 


94    THE    EDGE   OF   THE   PRECIPICE 

With  a  quick  movement  he  took  her  hand, 
and  she  felt  his  fingers  trembling. 

*  Please  look  at  me,'  he  whispered  ;  '  please 
look  at  me.     I  don't  understand.' 

She  raised  her  face.  Passion  and  entreaty 
leaped  forth  from  his  deep-lit  eyes  upon  her ; 
to  him  hers  were  as  a  sky  of  stars.  He  stooped 
upon  his  knees. 

*  May  I  kiss  you  ? '  he  asked  brokenly.  She 
winced,  moved  her  foot  restlessly  upon  the 
carpet,  and  sighed. 

*  Yes,'  she  replied  abruptly. 

*  Dearest,'  he  said  softly,  caressing  her.  *  It 
was  some  kind  god  surely  that  sent  you  here 
to-night'  She  laughed,  and  in  her  laugh  rang 
a  note  of  harshness. 

'  Perhaps  it  was  only  the  champagne,'  she  said. 

*  Hush !  You  mustn't  say  that.  You  make 
yourself  out  so  bad,  and  I  know  you  better.' 

In  his  speech  he  was  as  awkward  as  in  his 
actions.  He  put  out  a  clumsy  hand  as  though 
to  touch  her  again,  but  she  drew  back  uncer- 
tainly. 

*  Do  you  think  you  really  do  ? '  she  asked, 
with  a  suspicion  of  weary  scorn  in  her  voice. 
*  How  wonderfully  you  men  read  women  ! ' 


THE   EDGE   OF   THE   PRECIPICE    95 

*  Don't  make  fun  of  me,'  he  pleaded  '  Just 
after  you  have  given  me  the  greatest  and  most 
unexpected  happiness  in  life,  don't  let  a  false 
note  be  struck.' 

She  made  no  immediate  answer,  but  suffered 
him  to  take  and  kiss  her  hand. 

'  I  think  you  have  probably  made  a  mistake,' 
she  said  slowly.     '  You  are  so  young.' 

'  I  am  as  old  as  you,  dear.' 

'  We  don't  look  at  life  from  the  same  comer.' 

*  All  the  better  for  us,'  he  retorted  cheerfully. 
'  You  don't  understand  me.' 

'  I  love  you.' 

She  smiled  and  regarded  him  pitifully ;  he 
bent  forward  and  kissed  her  full  upon  the  lips. 
She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  shook 
with  little  sobs  of  emotion. 

*  Are  we  really  going  to  be  married,  then  ? ' 
she  asked.  *  Shall  we  be  married  to-morrow  ? 
Next  week?  When?  Oh,  let  us  be  married 
— yes,  and  be  done  with  misgivings  !  Hush ! 
What 's  that  ? '  She  broke  off  in  the  midst  of 
the  hysterical  sentences,  and,  starting  to  her 
feet,  listened,  her  face  pale  and  rigid. 

*  It 's  only  a  cab  passing,  dear.' 
'  Has  it  passed  ?     Listen  !  * 


96    THE   EDGE   OF   THE   PRECIPICE 

They  waited,  erect  and  silent,  until  the 
wheels  rattled  into  the  distance.  Then  she 
turned  to  him  quickly. 

*  Let  me  go  now,'  she  said  breathlessly. 

*  Please '  he  urged.     '  It 's  not  late.    Just 

five  minutes  more,  and  then  I  '11  put  you  into 
a  cab.' 

She  yielded  slowly  to  the  gentle  pressure  of 
his  hands,  and  declined  into  a  chair,  where  she 
sat  very  still,  her  eyes  fastened  upon  the  floor. 
A  little  timorously  he  stroked  her  hair,  as 
though  he  were  not  sure  yet  of  his  liberties. 
Indeed,  it  might  have  seemed  so,  for  presently 
she  stirred  and  pushed  his  hand  from  her  head. 

'  What  is  the  time  ? '  she  asked  feverishly. 

*  It  wants  still  ten  minutes  to  twelve,'  said 
Galworthy.     *  But  you  're  not  going  yet  ? ' 

A  tiny  sigh  of  relief  escaped  her.  She 
moistened  her  lips  and  looked  him  square  in 
the  face. 

'  Do  you  think  you  're  quite  in  earnest  ? '  she 
asked.  *  And  do  you  love  me  as  much  as  you 
seem  to  ? ' 

He  made  an  eager  protest  which  fell  harm- 
lessly before  her  dispassionate  calm.  It  was, 
he  could  not  help  thinking,  as  though  she  sat 


THE   EDGE   OF  THE   PRECIPICE    97 

and  judged  him  upon  some  quite  remote  and 
impersonal  matter. 

*  We  have  nothing  in  common,'  she  said 
sadly.  *  It  would  be  a  great  disappointment. 
We  should  come  to  hate  each  other.' 

*  No ! '  he  said  hotly. 

*  I  have  both  temper  and  talent,'  she  con- 
tinued. *  I  will  be  frank.  You  have  neither. 
The  world  amuses  me ;  save  for  your  books 
and  pictures,  it  bores  you.  You  would  never 
have  the  bad  taste  to  take  an  interest  in  life. 
You  are  a  dilettante  ;  I  am  of  the  profession 
of  livers.  Anything  great,  an  indignity,  a 
sudden  blow,  a  sharp  surprise,  would  turn  your 
interests  sour  for  you ;  me  it  would  leave  un- 
touched. You  lack  vitality  as  a  wraith  in  your 
own  dreams,  I  have  no  remorse,  and  you  have 
a  sensitive  conscience.' 

'What  does  all  this  mean,  darling?'  said 
Galworthy  with  an  astonished  little  laugh. 
'  What  nonsense  you  talk  !  We  love  each 
other.' 

'  I  have  every  impudence  in  the  world  ;  and 

you   are  a   stack   of  modesties,'  she   pursued. 

'  I  should  be  a  bitter  grief  to  you.'     She  rose 

and  laid  her  trembling  fingers  on  the  mantel- 

G 


98    THE   EDGE   OF   THE   PRECIPICE 

piece,  as  though  for  support.  '  I  think  within 
the  year,'  she  said  slowly,  *  we  should  find  each 
other  out.' 

*  My  dearest '  he  began. 

She  put  her  arm  on  his  shoulder  laughing. 

'  Do  you  love  me  so  much  ?  Would  you 
marry  me  to-morrow?*  she  asked  impetuously. 

'  Yes,  yes ! '  he  cried,  kissing  her. 

She  put  back  her  head  and  laughed,  and  the 
laugh  rang  through  the  room  like  the  tinkling 
of  a  sweet  bell. 

' "  Yes,  yes,"  you  say,'  she  cried.  '  The  phan- 
tom has  clothed  himself  in  flesh  and  blood. 
"  Yes,  yes."  And  yet  I  'm  sure  I  should  get 
to  hate  you.  Oh,  what  a  pity !  I  'm  afraid 
we  've  been  talking  fearful  nonsense.  We  could 
never  marry.  Don't  tell  any  one  you  kissed 
me.  It  was  the  champagne  got  into  my  head. 
Good-bye.' 

She  drew  her  cloak  hurriedly  around  her, 
and  made  a  dart  across  the  room,  but  Gal- 
worthy  clutched  her  arm,  and  held  her  strain- 
ing from  him,  at  arm's-length. 

'  What  do  you  mean  ? '  he  asked  hoarsely. 
'  Let  me  go,'  she  whispered.     '  There  is  some 
one  coming.     For  Heaven's  sake ' 


THE   EDGE   OF   THE   PRECIPICE    99 

A  tap  fell  on  the  door  from  without,  and 
silence  spread  through  the  room,  as  it  were 
audibly.  Galworthy's  heart  thumped  in  his 
side  ;  Miss  Verinder  drew  herself  up  quietly, 
and,  covering  her  head,  leaned  gently  on  the 
window-sill. 

'  No  one  shall  come  in,'  he  said  at  length. 

The  door  clamoured  under  the  heavy  hands 
of  the  impatient  visitor. 

'  Let  him  knock,*  growled  Galworthy. 

'  Why  not  let  him  in  ? '  said  Betty  softly. 

Galworthy  stared  confusedly  at  her  and  made 
no  answer.     The  door  shook  again. 

*  Galworthy ! '  called  a  voice. 

'  It 's  Hampton,'  muttered  Galworthy. 

Miss  Verinder  moved  swiftly  from  the  win- 
dow, and,  gliding  noiselessly  by  him,  stood 
for  one  moment  with  her  hand  on  the  door- 
knob.    Her  eyes  met  Galworthy's. 

'  For  God's  sake !  *  he  cried,  under  his  breath. 

She  shot  back  the  bolt,  and  the  door  flew 
open,  admitting  a  tall  man  with  a  fair  beard, 
who  wore  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head  and 
smoked  the  stump  of  a  cigar. 

'  HuUoa,  Galworthy  ! '  he  said  ;  *  why  the 
devil  didn't ' 


lOO    THE   EDGE   OF   THE   PRECIPICE 

He  paused  as  his  glance  lighted  on  Betty. 

*  Miss  Verinder !  I  beg  your  pardon !  *  he 
exclaimed,  snatching  vaguely  at  his  hat  and  his 
cigar.    '  I  didn't  know  any  one  was  here.    I ' 

Betty  broke  into  her  silver  laugh. 

Galworthy,  recovering  from  his  confusion, 
stepped  forward. 

'  Miss  Verinder  stopped  to  leave  a  note  at 
my  door,  and — and ' 

Betty  threw  herself  back  in  a  chair,  and 
laughed  louder  than  ever. 

'  My  dear  Sir  Edward,'  she  said,  '  you  who 
know  me  want  no  explanations.  I  'm  here, 
Voila  !    What  more  do  you  want  ? ' 

Hampton  stared  at  her  curiously,  and  in  his 
expression  admiration  and  surprise  were  blent 
with  a  certain  shadow  of  annoyance. 

*  It 's  delightful  to  see  you — so  unexpectedly,' 
he  said  slowly.    '  Galworthy  is  fortunate  to ' 

Galworthy  stood  confounded  and  irresolute. 
The  girl  alone  seemed  undisturbed.  She  rose 
and  tied  the  strings  of  her  cloak  ;  with  a  pretty 
motion  of  her  shoulders  she  withdrew  her  white 
arms  beneath  it. 

'  Were  you  going  ? '  asked  Hampton  politely. 
•  I  will  find  a  cab  for  you.' 


THE   EDGE   OF  THE   PRECIPICE     loi 

Gahvorthy  came  forward. 

*  No,'  he  said  ;  '  stay  here  ;  I  will  go.' 

Betty  shook  her  head.  '  I  think  Sir  Edward 
will  do  it  quickest.  He  has  often  found  cabs 
for  me.  You  shall  tell  me  your  news  as  we 
go,'  she  went  on,  turning  to  Hampton.  *  How 
is  Lady  Hampton  ?     Is  she  still  well  ? ' 

He  started  and  a  puzzled  frown  contracted 
his  forehead. 

'She  was  in  excellent  health  when  last  I 
heard,'  he  replied  coldly. 

'  Thanks.  I  am  wonderfully  interested  in 
Lady  Hampton's  health.'  Hampton  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  looked  at  Galworthy.  The 
latter  was  still  and  dumb.  '  Come,  Sir  Edward, 
I  am  waiting,'  she  added. 

He  tried  to  meet  her  eyes,  but  she  had  turned 
towards  the  door. 

'  I  think,  perhaps,  Galworthy '  he  began. 

She  stamped  her  foot  '  If  you  will  not, 
of  course,  I  can  go  by  myself,'  she  said 
shortly. 

'  Delighted,  if  Galworthy  will  excuse  me.  I  '11 
be  back  directly.' 

'  Oh,  you  're  coming  back,  are  you  ?*  she 
asked. 


I02    THE   EDGE   OF  THE   PRECIPICE 

•Yes,'  he  answered  deliberately.  'There's 
something  I  want  to  talk  to  Galworthy  about' 

'  Indeed  ! '  She  paused,  and  fumbled  at  her 
throat.  She  laughed.  'By  all  means  come 
back,'  she  said,  and  her  voice  had  a  curious 
quaver  in  it.  *  Mr.  Galworthy  requires  con- 
soling. It  is  not  every  engagement  that  is 
made  and  broken  in  half  an  hour.' 

Galworthy  leaped  forward  at  the  words,  and 
glared  fiercely  and  foolishly  at  Hampton.  The 
latter  stopped  suddenly  on  his  way  to  the  door, 
murmured  something  indistinctly,  and  then 
swung  slowly  out  behind  her.  The  sound  of 
their  departure  faded  down  the  stairs  ;  the  front 
door  shut  with  a  bang.  Galworthy  threw  open 
the  window  and  listened  stupidly  to  the  steps 
receding  down  the  footpath. 

It  was  not  until  they  had  reached  the  comer 
of  the  street  that  Hampton  spoke.  He  stopped 
and  turned  upon  her  quickly. 

'Will  you  tell  me  what  all  this  means?'  he 
asked  coldly.    *  Did  he  ask  you  to  marry  him  ?' 

*  He  did  me  that  honour.' 

'  And  you  refused  ? ' 

'  On  the  contrary,'  she  said  with  a  laugh, '  I 
accepted  gratefully.     We  never  imagined  our 


THE   EDGE   OF  THE   PRECIPICE    103 

fine  little  scheme  would  have  been  so  antici- 
pated, did  we?  Your  presence  was  quite  un- 
necessary, Edward.' 

'  Then  it  is  all  right  ? '  he  inquired  eagerly. 

'  Quite.     I  have  jilted  him.' 

The  man  made  an  exclamation  of  anger. 

'  You  are  intolerable,'  he  said, 

*  I  really  cannot  converse  all  night  at  street 
comers,'  she  replied  nonchalantly.  *  I  have  not 
come  to  that — yet' 

*  Betty  ! '  he  said  imploringly.  '  Betty !  Why 
have  you  done  this  ? ' 

She  gave  him  no  answer. 
'  Why  ? '  he  insisted. 

*  Indeed,  I  've  no  mind  to  marry  ;  that 's  all.' 
He  groaned.  She  burst  out  laughing.  '  What 
a  pretty  little  plot  was  ours !  and  how  well  you 
acted  !  But  I  did  not  give  you  the  proper  cues. 
I  saw  you  were  put  out,  but  it  was  a  clever  per- 
formance, a  very  clever  performance.  He  will 
never  guess.' 

*  I  will  see  him  to-night.* 

'  I  think  you  will  not,'  she  said  smiling. 

He  looked  at  her  anxiously. 

'  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Betty  ? ' 

'  Walk  home.     The  air  does  me  good.     It  is 


104    THE   EDGE   OF   THE   PRECIPICE 

a  fine  night.     And  is  every  one  quite  well?' 
She  gave  a  little  burst  of  hysterical  laughter. 
'  How  did  you  say  Lady  Hampton  was  when . 
you  heard  ?     I  'm  mightily  interested  in  Lady 
Hampton's  health.' 

'Betty,  Betty!  do  not  talk  like  that,'  he 
pleaded  earnestly.  '  Galworthy  was  your  only 
hope,  and  you've  thrown  it  away.  Why — 
good  Heavens,  why  ? ' 

She  sang  a  little  snatch  of  song,  and  put  her 
hand  on  his  arm. 

'  Good-bye,'  she  said. 

'What  are  you  going  to  do,'  he  asked 
anxiously. 

'  Oh,  I  don't  know.'  She  laughed  again.  '  I 
think  I  '11  spend  the  night  out  of  doors,  Edward. 
Better  go  home.' 

He  seized  her  hand. 

'  Betty,  you  are  mad.  Come  with  me,  dear, 
and  let  everything  go.' 

She  looked  at  him,  and  burst  into  her  flute- 
like laughter ;  then  nodding,  broke  away  and  ran 
up  the  steps  of  the  house  before  which  they  had 
paused.  Halfway  up  the  steps  she  threw  back 
the  hood  from  her  face,  and  her  laughter  pealed 
up  to  the  stars  unrestrained  and  meaningless. 


THE   EDGE   OF   THE   PRECIPICE    105 

'  Good-bye,'  she  said.  '  There 's  always  that 
Adelphi  river,  you  know.'  And  pulling  up  her 
skirts  with  one  hand,  she  ran  up  the  remainder 
of  the  steps  and  vanished  laughing  into  the 
doorway. 


IN    THE    BASEMENT 

Two  lights  contended  with  the  darkness  of  the 
room.  From  the  street  above  the  gas  shone  in 
a  yellow  shaft  through  the  dirty  little  window 
that  peeped  upon  the  area ;  and  from  the  fading 
ashes  in  the  hearth  the  coals  glowed  obscurely 
and  suffused  a  timid  light.  The  room  itself  was 
full  of  black  corners  into  which  the  eyes  might 
peer  in  vain.  The  furniture — if  indeed  the  pieces 
deserved  the  name — partook  of  the  general 
blackness.  The  three  chairs  were  shambling 
ruins.  Each  wanted  a  leg,  and  the  bottom  was 
out  of  the  only  one  that  had  ever  been  proud  in 
cane.  Rackety  and  discoloured  past  the  hue 
even  of  floor  and  ceiling,  which  were  grim  with 
grime,  a  table  rattled  to  the  rumbling  of  passing 
carts.  The  place  was  thick  with  evil  smells. 
Odours,  veteran  and  stale  with  years,  clung 
about  the  walls ;  while  newer  odours  of  food 
and  spirits  and  medicine  rose  as  it  were  from 

106 


IN    THE    BASEMENT       107 

the  floor  together.  On  the  darkest  side  of  the 
room  remote  from  the  tiny  window  the  fabric 
of  a  broken  bed  emerged  faintly.  Outside  and 
overhead  the  stamp  of  feet  along  the  flags 
echoed  and  faded  ;  the  coal-man  called  ;  and 
the  noise  of  screaming  children  rose  in  the 
December  air. 

A  sound  came  suddenly  from  the  squalid  bed 
along  the  wall.  The  two  women  paused  in 
their  conversation,  and  looked  towards  it. 

'Poor  soul!'  said  the  elder.  'It's  a  shame 
they  shouldn't  go  off"  more  easylike.' 

*  I  dunno  when  it 's  goin'  to  happen,'  returned 
her  companion  despondently.  'The  doctor — 
he  says  it  '11  be  to-night     But  I  dunno.' 

Her  friend  sympathised  with  her.  '  It 's  a 
deal  o'  trouble  when  you  get  'em  like  that,  Mrs. 
Williams,  and  nuthin'  coming  in.  I  always  says 
it 's  a  mercy  to  be  took  sudden — that  I  do.' 

*  Like  what  my  Jim  was,'  acquiesced  Mrs. 
Williams. 

'  Which  one  was  Jim  ? ' 

'  Fourth  after  Bessie  Jane.  He  was  a  quiet- 
like  chap  too,  on'y  for  the  women.  He  took  on 
so.  I  never  hardly  seen  'im  without  a  collar 
round  his  neck.     He  fell  off  of  a  dray  when  'e  'd 


I08       IN    THE    BASEMENT 

'ad  a  drop  too  much,  and  the  wheel  went  over 
*im.  He  warn't  a  bad  lad,  Jim.  That  was  when 
we  lived  Camberwell,'  she  added  meditatively. 

'  How  long  was  you  living  Camberwell  ? '  in- 
quired  the  other  woman,  with  more  interest. 

*  I  'ad  a  nephew  lived  there  four  years.' 

'  Me  and  'im  lived  there — let 's  see  now.  We 
was  there  when  I  was  in  bed  of  my  seventh — 
that 's  Sarah ;  and  we  left  when  my  old  man 
took  the  fever.  That  must  'a'  bin  a  good  ten 
years,  Mrs.  Pentecost' 

A  low  moan  issued  from  the  sickbed  again, 
and  the  speaker  got  up  and  stooped  over  it. 

'  Lie  still,  dearie,'  she  murmured,  and  she 
tucked  the  blanket  round  the  man  and  patted 
the  pillow  soothingly.  Then  taking  her  seat 
once  more,  she  stared  reflectively  into  the  fire. 

*  It 's  a  good  thing,'  she  began  after  a  pause, 

*  that  them  insurances  was  paid  up  all  right  last 
week.' 

Mrs.  Pentecost  assented.  'And  the  buryin' 
society  too,'  she  added.  'You  ain't  lost  that 
either  ? ' 

Mrs.  Williams  was  restless  ;  her  gaze  shifted 
to  the  dirty  window,  and  she  strained  her  ears 
to  catch  the  noises  in  the  street. 


IN    THE    BASEMENT        109 

'  You  don't  'ear  nothink  ? '  she  asked. 
'  Was  you  expecting  the  doctor  ? ' 

*  No  ;  it 's  Rebecca  Susan — she 's  coming  'ome 
to  see  him  'fore  he  dies.' 

*  She  done  well,  has  Rebecca  Susan,'  said  Mrs. 
Pentecost  with  emphasis,  smoothing  her  lap  and 
edging  nearer  the  fire. 

'  She 's  bin  parlour-maid  three  years  now  in 
one  fambly,'  said  her  mother  with  some  pride. 

Mrs.  Pentecost  rose.  '  I  '11  'ave  to  be  getting 
back,  Mrs.  Williams,'  said  she. 

'You  ain't  goin'  yet,'  protested  her  friend. 
'  There 's  plenty  o'  time.  Set  down  and  'ave  a 
drop  o'  something.' 

*  I  didn't  ought  to  take  it,'  said  Mrs.  Pentecost 
feebly.  '  But  I  've  heard  that  it 's  good  for 
as'ma.' 

'  Law,  it  '11  do  you  a  world  of  good,'  said  Mrs. 
Williams  cheerfully.  She  rose  and  bustled 
about  in  the  darkness.  Somewhere  in  the 
recesses  of  the  room  a  glass  clinked.  Mrs. 
Pentecost's  mouth  opened,  and  she  moistened 
her  lips.  A  fat  squat  figure  wrapt  in  antic 
shadows,  her  hostess  crept  wheezing  out  of  the 
gloom,  laden  with  a  square  bottle,  a  glass,  and 
a  cup  without  a  handle. 


no       IN    THE    BASEMENT 

'  It 's  comforting  to  take  a  drop,'  Mrs.  Pente- 
cost explained  to  herself  and  her  friend.  Mrs. 
Williams  poured  the  spirit  into  the  glass  and 
the  cup.     The  sick  man  murmured  in  his  sleep. 

*  He  cries  like  as  he  'ad  wind,'  said  Mrs. 
Pentecost  compassionately,  sipping  her  gin. 

'  I  s'pose  she  '11  be  here  direckly,'  said  Mrs. 
Williams,  breaking  the  silence  which  ensued. 

'  There 's  some  one  stamping  on  the  airey  flags 
now.    That  '11  be  her,'  said  the  other  woman. 

Both  listened  ;  and  then  Mrs.  Williams  got 
up,  and  opening  the  door  of  the  room,  trudged 
heavily  up  the  stone  stairs.  There  were  sounds 
of  voices  above,  the  one  of  a  man  laughing ; 
and  clumsy  boots  descended  again  into  the 
basement. 

*  It 's  on'y  Tom,'  said  his  mother,  as  she 
entered  the  room. 

*  On'y  me  ! '  said  Tom  with  a  silly  laugh,  as 
he  followed  at  her  heels.  He  was  a  tall  young 
man,  in  the  dress  of  a  porter ;  his  face  was 
flushed,  and  he  stooped  a  little,  so  as  to  keep 
his  head  from  brushing  against  the  low  ceiling. 

'This  is  bleedin'  dark,'  he  said  presently. 
"Ow's  the  old  man?  He  ain't  kicked  over 
yet, 'as 'e?' 


IN    THE    BASEMENT        in 

*  No,*  said  his  mother.  *  But  'e  ain't  going  to 
be  here  long.' 

'  Goin'  to  'ear  the  angels,'  laughed  Tom 
stupidly,  and  bent  over  the  bed.  *  'E  ain't  goin' 
to  last  out  much,'  he  said  at  length.  '  'Ullo, 
father!  'ow  d'ye  feel?  You  'aven't  'ad  him 
shaved  ? ' 

The  sick  man  stirred  and  raised  himself 
weakly  on  his  elbow. 

*  Jist  you  lay  down,  father,'  said  the  woman. 
*  You  ain't  fit  to  set  up.' 

'  'Old  on,  mother ;  let  'im  set  up,  if  he  wants 
to,'  said  Tom  cheerfully.  '  He  won't  be  able  to 
get  much  of  what  'e  wants,  soon  enough.  You 
let  'im  set  up  and  have  a  nip  of  somethink.' 

He  put  his  arm  round  the  sick  man,  and 
propped  him  against  the  wall  into  a  sitting 
position,  while  the  woman  drew  the  blankets 
carefully  about  the  withered  body. 

*  'Ow  d'  ye  feel  yourself,  father?'  shouted  Tom. 

*  They  don't  feel  much — not  so  near  as  this,' 
commented  Mrs.  Pentecost  thoughtfully. 

The  invalid  opened  his  mouth  as  if  to  answer, 
but  only  emitted  a  hoarse  and  inarticulate 
sound. 

'  Why,  'e  ain't  got  a  damn  left  in  'im,'  sjiid 


112       IN    THE    BASEMENT 

Tom,  and  turning  suddenly  to  the  woman, 
*  Gawd  !  you  oughter  seen  me  and  old  Joe  this 
afternoon.  We  'ad  a  pretty  sort  of  row  on,  we 
did.  Strike  me,  I  was  in  a  bloomin'  rage. 
There  was  a  chap  come  up  as  we  was  standin' 
outside  The  Sailors — damn  his  eyes  ! — and  says, 
whining-like,  "  Lend  me  'arf-a-brown,  governor, 
I  'm  starvin'."  So  I  looks  at  'im,  and  he  seemed 
pretty  blowed  up,  so  I  outs  with  a  copper  and 
claps  it  into  'is  'and.  Then  I  goes  off  with  Joe 
into  the  Three  Sailors,  you  know,  just  to  wet 
up.  And  presently  who  should  come  in  but 
the  bloke  'isself  He  didn't  see  me,  so  he  orders 
a  noggin  of  gin,  and  whips  out  a  'arf-crown, 
plain  as  you  like.  Well,  I  couldn't  stand  that. 
I  says  to  Joe, "  I  'm  going  for  'im,"  I  says.  "  You 
bleedin'  little  tyke,"  I  says,  "what  d'ye  come 
snivellin'  around  for  a  'a'penny  when  you  got  a 
'arf-crown  in  your  linings  ?  "  I  give  him  beans, 
I  tell  you !  And  I  offered  to  stuff  my  fingers 
in  his  bloomin'  face.  But  he  wasn't  takin'  any 
— said  'e  could  get  as  much  as  'e  wanted  o' 
that  at  'ome.  If  'e  'adn't  a  slipped  out,  I  'd  'a' 
laid  'im  out — and  Joe  can  tell  you.' 

'Them  fellers  has  no  conscience,'  said  Mrs. 
Pentecost  sympathetically. 


IN    THE    BASEMENT       113 

'  The  dirty  dog ! '  ejaculated  Tom.  '  Got  any 
gin,  mother?' 

'  No,  there  ain't  no  more.  Mrs.  Pentecost 
and  me  'ad  the  last' 

*  Well,  tip  us  the  colour  of  it,  and  I  '11  fetch 
in  some,  old  woman.* 

*  Tom,  you  bring  in  that  shaver,  too,'  called 
out  Mrs.  Williams  as  he  went  out  of  the  door. 
'  If  'e  goes  off  first,  we  '11  'ave  to  pay  more  'n  we 
like.  Them  barbers  always  charges  a  shilling 
for  a  dead,'  she  explained  to  Mrs.  Pentecost  as 
she  took  her  seat  again. 

Her  friend  sighed  in  sympathy,  and  there  was 
a  temporary  silence  in  the  darkening  room. 
Then  a  thin  hoarse  voice  broke  across  the 
stillness. 

'  D'  ye  mind  that  there  drive  to  Peckham  Rye, 
Sally?' 

'  Gawd  love  your  old  bones,  course  I  do,'  said 
Mrs.  Williams  with  emphasis,  turning  towards 
the  bed. 

'  Lord,  'ow  'e  did  startle  me ! '  said  Mrs, 
Pentecost. 

'  You  was  that  blind  drunk  afore  we  got 
'ome !  And  me  fallin'  out  of  the  shay  through 
laughin','  said  the  wife. 

H 


114       IN    THE    BASEMENT 

Something  that  might  have  stood  for  a  cackle 
of  laughter  came  from  the  sick  man, 

'  That  was  nigh  about  thirty-three  year  ago/ 
Mrs.  Williams  confided  to  her  friend. 

'  'Ow  they  do  remember! '  said  Mrs.  Pentecost. 

'  I  can't  move  my  'ead,*  said  the  same  hoarse 
voice. 

'You  stay  up  there,  father,  till  the  shaver 
comes.  And  then  we'll  let  you  lay  down. 
Don't  you  try  and  move  your  'ead.'  The  man 
muttered  unintelligibly  to  himself  for  a  little, 
and  then  silence  fell  once  more,  till  it  was 
broken  by  Mrs.  Williams. 

'  Yes,'  she  said  reflectively.  *  It 's  Gawd's 
truth.  I  've  seen  many  of  'em  dead,  and  some 
die  easy  and  some  don't' 

'  It  ain't  as  bad  as  'avin'  a  baby,  I  believe,' 
said  Mrs.  Pentecost. 

*  I  dunno,  I  ain't  no  opinion  about  it,'  said  the 
wife  dully. 

'  Well,  you  'ave  your  'usband,and  your  fambly ; 
and  there 's  a  drop  of  liquor,  and  a  bit  o'  bread, 
and  a  scrag  o'  mutton,  I  s'pose — that 's  what  it 
all  comes  to,'  returned  her  friend  despondently. 

'  It  ain't  much  more.' 

*  Not  as  I  want  to  go  just  yet — not  yet  a  bit, 


IN    THE    BASEMENT       115 

And  it  won't  be  so  'ard  for  you  'avin'  that  buryin' 
money.' 

*  I  '11  give  'im  a  bit  o'  gold  on  'is  coffin,'  said 
Mrs.  Williams  with  some  satisfaction. 

The  noise  of  feet  was  heard  upon  the  stairs, 
and  she  got  up. 

"Ere's  Tom  back  with  the  shaver.'  The 
barber  who  entered  behind  her  son  in  an  unob- 
trusive way  was  a  pale  young  man  with  hair 
carefully  curled  and  oiled,  and  a  jaunty  appear- 
ance of  dissipation. 

'You  ain't  got  much  light,'  he  remarked, 
glancing  about  the  room. 

'  Mother  '11  light  a  candle,'  said  Tom.  The 
woman  bustled  into  the  darkness  of  a  comer, 
and  Tom  looked  at  the  barber.  The  young  man 
still  glanced  about,  and  his  eye  lighted  on  the 
glass  which  stood  at  Mrs.  Pentecost's  elbow. 

'  'Ave  some  along  of  us  ? '  said  Tom  cheerily. 

•  I  don't  mind,'  said  the  young  man.  He 
drank  at  a  draught  the  gin  which  Tom  poured 
out  The  old  woman  struck  a  match,  and 
a  feeble  light  streamed  over  the  bed  from  a 
sickly  candle. 

•'E  looks  pretty  groggy,'  said  the  barber 
doubtfully.    *  I  dunno  but  I  ought  to  wait.' 


ii6       IN    THE    BASEMENT 

*  Oh,  *e  's  all  right.    You  walk  in,'  said  Tom. 
The  young  man  produced  his  strop  and  his 

razor  and  approached  the  sick  man. 

'  Sally,  I  can't  move  my  'ead,'  whispered  the 
thin  voice. 

'  You  shall  lay  down,  father,  in  a  minute,'  said 
his  wife  encouragingly. 

The  barber  shaved. 

Tom  took  his  seat  near  the  fire,  and  emptied 
some  gin  into  a  tumbler. 

'  'Ave  some  more,  Mrs.  Pentecost  ? '  he  said. 

The  woman  declined. 

'  Mother,  you  come  along  and  'ave  some,'  he 
called. 

The  wife  moved  from  the  bedside  and  came 
to  the  fire. 

'  I  won't  'ave  none,'  she  replied  abstractedly. 
She  sighed.  *  'Ow  people  do  change !  He 
ain't  a  bit  like  what  'e  was  when  we  was 
married.' 

*  That 's  a  tidy  long  time  ago,  mother.' 
'  Thirty-five  year  and  four  months.* 

'  You  got  it  straight  enough.' 

*  Well,  it  ain't  what  one  would  be  likely  to 
forget,  any  more'n  the  first  baby,'  said  Mrs, 
Pentecost 


IN    THE    BASEMENT        117 

'  'Ow  old  was  Jim  when  'e  fell  off  of  the  dray  ? ' 
asked  Tom,  sipping  his  gin. 

*  Nigh  on  twenty-five,  he  was.' 

The  sound  of  the  razor  ceased,  and  Tom 
looked  round. 

'  Finished  ? '  he  asked. 

'Yes,'  said  the  young  man  doubtfully,  and 
stood  looking  down  upon  his  subject. 

Tom  and  his  mother  approached  the  bed. 

'  You  lay  'im  down  again  sideways,'  said  the 
mother.  'It'll  be  easier  for  'im.  Why,  'e's 
fell  over  a  bit,'  she  said  in  surprise. 

Tom  looked  at  the  barber.  His  mother  bent 
down  and  took  hold  of  her  husband's  hand. 

'  What  are  you  layin'  down  like  that  for,  old 
man  ? '  she  asked.  '  What  you  got  your  'ead  so 
tight  agin'  that  nasty  board  for  ?  Just  you  set  up, 
and  we  '11  lay  you  down.    You  '11  ketch  cold.' 

'  You  shut  up,  mother ! '  said  Tom  roughly. 
*  'E  '11  never  want  no  more  layin'  down,  but  one. 
'E  '11  never  ketch  no  more  cold — 'e  won't' 

The  woman  started  and  raised  herself,  staring 
upon  the  body  in  silence. 

'  I  knowed  'e  was  dead,'  said  the  barber,  *  I 
knowed  'e  was  dying  when  I  come  in.  That 
makes  it  a  bob.' 


ii8       IN    THE    BASEMENT 

*  You  better  get  out ! '  said  Tom  angrily.  '  It 
ain't  going  to  be  a  bob,  and  so  I  tell  you  flat. 
You  better  look  slippy  ! ' 

The  dissipated  young  man  mumbled,  glanced 
at  the  tall  figure,  and  finally  disappeared  through 
the  door. 

Tom  sat  down  opposite  Mrs.  Pentecost. 

*  Damned  cheek  ! '  he  muttered. 

'  Ain't  you  better  cover  up  his  face  ? '  whis- 
pered Mrs.  Pentecost  hoarsely. 

Tom  shook  his  head.  '  I  dunno.  Mother  '11 
do  that.' 

The  woman  stood  by  the  bed  ;  she  reached 
down  and  chafed  the  stiffening  fingers  of  the 
dead  man's  hand.  Then  she  left  the  bedside, 
and  moved  towards  her  two  companions. 

*  'E  ain't  much  like  what  he  used  to  be  when 
I  knew  'im  first,'  she  said  in  a  vague  voice. 

'  Sit  down,  now  do,'  pleaded  Mrs.  Pentecost. 
'Rest  yourself,  and  'ave  a  drop  more.  It'll 
stiddy  your  nerves.' 

Mrs.  Williams  paid  no  attention  to  this 
request.     She  looked  vacantly  into  the  fire. 

'  Rebecca  Susan  ain't  come  after  all,'  she  said. 

Tom  poured  himself  out  another  glass  of  gin. 


AN    ORDEAL    OF    THREE 

I  COULD  not  be  mistaken.  The  breath  of  the 
soft  air  was  in  my  hair  and  on  my  forehead,  but 
a  softer  breath  still  lingered  on  my  face.  The 
warm  sun  glowed  upon  my  cheeks,  but  my  lips 
were  burning  with  a  fresher  warmth.  The  long 
culms  of  the  grasses  rustled  in  my  ears,  but 
something  more  delicate  and  gracious  still 
stirred  about  me.  I  could  have  no  possible 
doubt  of  some  presence  by  my  side.  Slowly 
the  drowsy  wits  came  back  to  life,  with  this 
subtly  sweet  impression,  and  with  a  start  were 
suddenly  alert  and  anxious.  I  sat  up  and 
listened  ;  the  swish  of  skirts  sounded  distantly  ; 
and  in  a  second  I  had  realised  the  event  The 
place  was  still  fragrant  as  from  some  new-blown 
flower.  I  leapt  to  my  feet  and  darted  into  the 
little  wood. 

When  I  came  out  breathless  upon  the  high- 
walled  garden,  I  stopped  in  perplexity  at  the 
division   of  the  pathways.      I   had   not   been 

119 


120    AN    ORDEAL    OF    THREE 

prepared  for  so  bewildering  an  answer  to  my 
puzzle ;  for  there  before  me  were  all  three, 
equally  dispassionate,  as  it  seemed,  and  equally 
unalarmed.  Her  stately  form  invested  with 
fresh  green  leaves,  Dorothy  caressed  the  holly- 
hocks, as  tall  and  royal  as  herself.  On  the 
mid-path  stood  Cynthia  smelling  at  the  roses, 
her  white  gown  blowing  in  the  breeze  ;  while 
dainty  Joan  was  bent  low  over  the  carnations,  a 
very  mirror  of  pensive  meditation.  It  was  into 
this  atmosphere  of  still  repose  I  burst  in  rude 
excitement  Joan  glanced  up  quickly  at  my 
voice ;  Cynthia  turned  to  meet  me ;  Dorothy 
remained  motionless  beside  the  hollyhocks. 
The  problem  at  once  grew  grave  and  im- 
portunate.    Which  of  the  three  had  it  been  ? 

Cynthia  greeted  me  with  a  smile  and  a 
charming  little  toss  of  her  head. 

*  So  you  are  awake  at  last,'  said  she.  *  I  saw 
you  sprawling  from  a  distance.  'Twas  not  of 
your  proper  courtesy  to  leave  us  so  ungenerously 
upon  a  fine  afternoon.' 

She  made  a  tiny  grimace,  in  which  it  seemed 
I  must  read  something  more  significant  My 
heart  thumped.  Could  it  be  then  that  she  of 
her  grace  had  condescended  so?     She  broke 


AN    ORDEAL    OF    THREE    121 

into  laughter  that  wrinkled  her  eyes.     I  felt  I 
could  be  content  it  should  be  Cynthia. 

*  Heavens,  what  a  serious  face ! '  she  cried. 
*  If  you  have  no  conversation  to  save  us  from 
moping  it  shall  not  be  I  will  keep  you  company. 
You  were  best  rubbing  your  eyes.' 

She  turned  on  her  heel  and  left  me,  and  I 
sighed  with  a  sudden  doubt.  She  was  scarce 
likely  to  make  so  bold  with  her  tongue  had  she 
indeed  been  guilty.  Soberly  I  took  my  way  to 
Dorothy  across  the  borders. 

*  Ah ! '  said  she,  with  a  glance  from  her  flowers. 
'You  have  come  in  the  hour  of  my  need. 
Would  maids  were  of  ;a  size  convenient !  Pray 
reach  me  the  topmost  flower.' 

I  did  her  bidding,  and  she  smiled  upon  me 
graciously. 

*  And  where  have  you  been  ? '  said  she, 
wrapping  her  nosegay  round. 

'  This,'  thought  I,  as  I  gave  her  some  op- 
portune answer,  *is  surely  but  the  ignorance 
of  knowledge.  Her  attitude  of  ease,  and  her 
aspect  of  indifference  are  too  severe  and  careful 
to  be  natural.  She  speaks  calmly  out  of  her 
many  tremors,  and  could  I  inspect  her  heart  I 
should  find  it  quaking  and  ashamed.' 


122    AN    ORDEAL    OF    THREE 

*  You  are  dull  to-day,'  she  said  presently  ;  '  a 
useful  servant,  but  a  cheerless  companion.  Do 
you  admire  my  nosegay  ?  Oh !  this  garden  is 
afire ;  I  '11  seek  the  orchard,'  and  with  that  she 
faded  away. 

I  watched  her  go,  but  she  betrayed  no  haste, 
and  her  gait  was  as  queenly  and  secure  as  ever. 
Could  it,  indeed,  be  that  one  who  wore  this 
dignity  of  embarrassed  kindliness  had  so  far 
stooped  from  her  frigid  height?  I  dared  not 
think  it  and  went  off,  all  ashamed  of  my  in- 
solent thought,  to  pretty  Joan,  the  last  of  the 
three.  The  last — but  the  likeliest  ?  I  thought 
she  flushed  slightly  as  I  stayed  beside  her  with- 
out salutation.  The  silence  seemed  even  to 
disturb  her.  She  shifted  uneasily  under  my 
gaze. 

'  Oh,  'tis  hot,  'tis  hot,'  said  she,  smoothing  back 
the  tumbled  hairs  from  her  brow.  'And  I  to 
feel  it  so  who  have  this  moment  come  from  the 
house ! ' 

I  assented  that  it  was  hot,  and  mopped  my 
own  forehead,  as  I  meditated  upon  the  import 
of  this  speech.  She  has  confessed,  I  reflected 
exultantly ;  she  has  confessed  by  her  very 
anxiety  to  disprove  her  neighbourhood.    Plainly 


AN    ORDEAL    OF    THREE    123 

it  was  she ;  and  as  I  regarded  her  closely, 
I  could  be  glad  that  it  was  no  other.  She 
threw  a  sly  glance  at  me. 

'  You  have  lost  your  tongue,'  said  she.  '  You 
are  as  much  confounded  as  though  you  had  just 
risen  ;'  and  she  shook  her  head  smilingly  at  me. 

But  this  again  set  me  back  wandering  among 
doubts,  as  one  might  not  be  so  bold  and  yet  so 
timid  in  a  breath.  No,  I  reflected,  gazing  after 
her,  it  was  surely  not  this  demure  creature, 
whose  soul  is  ever  in  her  eyes,  whose  innocence 
is  as  conspicuous  as  the  dimple  in  her  cheek. 
She  had  not  so  far  dared  even  for  the  love  of  me. 
And  here  I  was  brought  to  pause  by  a  primary 
consideration  in  my  problem.  Was  the  act  of 
love,  of  malice,  or  of  accident  ?  If  of  love,  per- 
chance after  all  it  was  Joan  ;  but  if  of  malice, 
then  Cynthia  for  a  crown  ;  while  if  it  were 
Dorothy,  I  could  conceive  it  nothing  but  the 
unexpected  outcome  of  some  odd  mischance. 
And  yet  if  love,  why  not  any  of  the  three,  since 
love  will  venture  anything,  and  betray  into  the 
most  wonderful  surprises  ?  '  Let  us  say  it  was 
love,'  I  said,  'certainly  some  guilty  mark  will 
suddenly  reveal  her  to  me.'  And  to  that  end 
throughout  the  summer  day   I   kept  a   watch 


124   AN    ORDEAL    OF    THREE 

upon  them.  Did  one  look  at  me  I  was  still 
contemplating  the  sky,  indifferent-wise,  to  out- 
ward seeming,  every  sense  strained  to  interpret 
that  glance.  Did  one  laugh,  out  of  the  corner 
of  my  eye  I  observed  every  line  and  wrinkle  of 
her  smile.  I  beset  them  with  careless  atten- 
tions ;  they  might  not  move  without  my  regard  : 
each  little  exhibition  of  human  emotion  I  tracked 
to  its  original  and  lawful  home.  But,  alas !  I 
made  nothing  by  my  persistence,  for  every  act 
of  all  refuted  its  predecessor.  There  was  no 
order  in  my  conclusions  ;  the  one  perverted  an- 
other ;  and  half  a  dozen  times  an  hour  I  must 
form  and  reform  my  verdict.  A  thousand 
kisses  had  not  cost  me  so  much  embarrassment. 
Dorothy's  eyes  were  placidly  content,  and  never 
rested  upon  me  of  premeditation ;  I  suspected 
her.  Cynthia  laughed  full  and  meaningly  into 
my  face :  of  her  too  I  had  grave  suspicion. 
Joan  shot  bashful  glances  from  below  her  droop- 
ing lashes  :  I  could  have  sworn  it  was  she. 

*  She  who  loves  me,'  said  I,  *  will  take  my  gift 
in  some  intimate  manner.'  I  made  each  the 
offer  of  a  flower — a  rose  to  Cynthia,  a  passion- 
less lily  to  Dorothy,  a  red  carnation  to  blushing 
Joan.     Dorothy  gave  me  a  gentle  smile  and 


AN    ORDEAL    OF    THREE    125 

fingered  her  lily  prettily ;  Cynthia  pressed  her 
rose  to  her  lips ;  Joan  hid  her  blossom  in  her  heav- 
ing bosom.  Was  there  then  nothing  by  which 
she  might  be  known?  By  this  I  was  grown 
desperate,  and  determined  upon  bolder  measures. 
I  dared  not  put  the  question  to  them  patently, 
but  I  might  lead  each  slowly  to  some  situation 
of  my  contrivance,  and  perchance  confronting 
her  with  the  ghost  of  her  own  impertinence 
might  convict  the  offender  of  her  dear  offence. 

We  sat  in  the  falling  light  around  the  table. 
Dorothy  looked  out  of  the  window  upon  the 
lawn,  and  Joan  admired  the  eglantine.  Cynthia 
yawned  and  played  with  her  knife.  I  took  a 
glass  of  wine. 

'  I  love  not  a  prude,*  said  I,  breaking  the 
silence.  *  I  have  always  had  a  distaste  for  un- 
timely modesty.  Women,'  I  said,  'have  no 
quality  more  delightful  than  the  tact  which  will 
instruct  them  when  to  dispense  with  reserve. 
Should  they  choose  to  condescend  from  their 
imperial  reticence,  the  liberty  does  them  infinite 
service ;  it  is  a  parcel  of  their  sovereignty.  I 
would  make  no  complaint,  though  one  were  to 
strip  herself  of  all  the  modes  and  manners  of 
society  and  come  habited  in  audacities  of  her 


126    AN    ORDEAL    OF    THREE 

own.     Nay,  the  act  would   be    individual   in 
her.' 

Dorothy  stared  at  me ;  Cynthia  stared  at  me ; 
they  stared  at  me  all  three. 

*  This  is  to  prove,  sir?'  says  Cynthia  roguishly. 

*  Proprieties  are  odious  on  occasion,'  I  ob- 
served. *  I  would  have  you  understand  that 
this  is  my  creed.     I  am  all  for  a  free  spirit.' 

'  Indeed,'  says  Dorothy  with  a  smile.  '  It  is 
good  of  you  to  inform  us  of  this.' 

*  Heigho  ! — a  sermon,'  quoth  Cynthia  with  a 
pretty  yawn  ;  *  and  to-morrow  Sunday ! ' 

Joan  dimpled.  *  Is  there  no  more?'  she  asked 
with  gentle  archness. 

'  For  a  man  to  kiss  a  maid,'  I  resumed  with- 
out wincing,  *  is  natural  and  just.  Why,  then, 
serve  not  a  maid  with  the  same  sauce  ?  If  the 
chance  befall  her  and  fit  her  humour,  in  God's 
name  let  her  kiss  and  be  merry.' 

Dorothy  shifted  her  chair  and  drummed  her 
foot  upon  the  floor ;  Joan  blushed  and  glanced 
away  ;  Cynthia  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter. 

'  You  are  too  kind  ! '  she  cried.  '  But  'tis  well 
we  have  your  permission.  We  owe  you  thanks. 
Perhaps  also  we  have  now  the  liberty  to  with- 
draw.' 


AN    ORDEAL    OF    THREE    127 

The  door  clapped  to  behind  them.  I  sat 
staring  moodily  into  my  wine. 

'  If  this  will  not  serve,'  I  said  angrily,  *  then 
shall  they  have  it  in  all  seriousness,  and  the 
Devil  take  the  responsibility.  I  will  make  love, 
and  be  damned  to  it ;  and  I  '11  wager  the  pretty 
maid  that  loves  me  will  come  tumbling  into 
my  arms  this  very  evening.  So  surely  shall  I 
discover  and  unmask  her.' 

When  I  leaned  across  the  window-sill  and 
murmured  into  Dorothy's  ear,  the  dusk  was 
falling,  and  the  odour  of  fir-trees  was  in  the 
air.  I  spoke  of  courtly  queens  and  royal 
maidens,  of  golden  hair  and  quiet,  serious  eyes. 
'Those  things,'  I  said,  'are  dear  to  me,  con- 
stituents of  my  high  ideal.  I  have  the  desire 
to  be  done  with  the  dolorous  delights  of  way- 
ward days.  There  comes  a  time  in  the  affairs 
of  youth  when  the  man  must  discard  unworthy 
follies,  and  steal  home  to  the  heart  that  loves 
him.' 

Much  more  I  said,  being  now  astride  my 
counterfeit  passion.  She  heard  me  silently, 
and  sighed. 

'  Ah,  to  live  and  love ! '  she  murmured.  '  It 
completes  the  serenity  of  life,'  and  sighed  again. 


128   AN    ORDEAL    OF    THREE 

I  took  her  hand.  She  looked  into  my  face  ; 
smiling  beatitudes  sighed  from  her  lips.  She 
rose  and  glided  gently  from  the  room. 

And  now  it  seemed  that  I  was  at  last  at  the 
solution  of  my  problem  ;  but  yet  I  must  go  the 
round  rather  from  a  sense  of  logic  than  out  of 
any  lingering  doubt.  And  so  it  came  to  pass 
that  in  the  mellow  twilight  I  sat  watching 
Cynthia's  scarlet  lips  part  and  close  and  part 
again.  I  had  thought  to  have  no  taste  for  the 
encounter,  but  the  sight  somehow  set  me  aglow 
to  be  nearer  her.  I  fell  in  with  the  chase  of 
her  mad  whims,  and  together  we  raced  about 
a  tiny  world  which  for  the  nonce  was  all  our 
own.  Then  at  a  pause  I  broke  into  the  hot 
words  of  my  declaration.  'For  me,'  quoth  I, 
'no  staid  and  sluggish  spirit.  I  love  a  full- 
souled  ardent  gaze,  of  a  warm  and  ruddy 
passion,  lithe  jocund  limbs,  and  the  fretting 
fever  of  desire.  An  I  were  sure  of  such,  how 
much  happiness  were  mine  ! ' 

She  returned  me  my  look  of  longing,  her 
eyes  sparkled,  the  light  danced  over  her  face. 

*  Yes,'  said  she  suddenly,  *  and  such  love  were 
worth  all — to  a  woman.' 

Her  hand  dangling  by  her  chair,  I  seized  and 


AN    ORDEAL    OF    THREE    129 

bore  half-way  to  my  lips.    I  thought  the  pressure 
was  returned  ;  she  rose  and  fled  the  terrace. 

Left  to  myself,  I  passed  up  and  down  in  per- 
plexity. Was  mortal  man  ever  so  horribly  dis- 
traught ?  By  all  the  signs  it  should  be  this  one 
that  had  loved  me  and  embraced  me  in  the 
meadows.  Now  I  thought  upon  it,  Dorothy's 
smile  struck  me  as  something  impartial,  her 
sigh  as  merely  dutiful,  her  words  as  wholly 
tolerant.  The  fervour  of  Cynthia's  mood  seized 
openly  upon  me.  In  Joan  I  looked  for  nothing 
save  maybe  a  little  exhibition  of  panic  at  the 
bold  advertisement  of  love.  But  she  must  still 
be  tested  according  to  my  vow,  and  forthwith 
I  set  out  to  find  her. 

It  was  in  the  tail  of  the  gloaming  that  I 
stooped  over  her  chair  and  drew  slowly  into  in- 
timacy by  sundry  words  of  sympathy.  She  was 
all  bashfulness  and  virgin  modesty,  moved  from 
me  gently,  turned  her  glance  aside,  fidgeted 
with  her  flower,  and  finally,  when  I  had  ex- 
hibited in  full  my  affection  for  a  shy  and  cling- 
ing nature,  and  had  grown  emboldened  to  touch 
her  fingers,  withdrew  softly  from  my  vicinity. 

'  I    wish  you   good  fortune,'  she   whispered. 
'  Such  an  one  would  be  very  happy  with  her,' 
I 


I30  AN    ORDEAL    OF    THREE 

Dumfounded  I  sat  upon  the  terrace  and 
blinked  stupidly  at  the  stars  in  a  maze  of  con- 
flicting opinions.  If  ever  the  tokens  of  a  tender 
affection  were  anywhere  visible,  they  were  worn 
upon  the  embarrassment  of  this  maid.  The 
last  venture  had  left  me  no  less  confident  than 
the  others ;  and  Cynthia's  lips  had  faded  with 
Dorothy's  eyes.  The  more  I  reflected  the  more 
serious  and  difficult  did  the  paths  of  my  deduc- 
tion grow,  the  further  was  I  from  any  disen- 
tanglement. I  had  tried  all  the  avenues  of 
knowledge  and  was  now  no  wiser.  I  raised  my 
hands  to  heaven  in  my  disgust  to  be  no  better 
judge  of  feminine  conduct.  Had  I  been  dis- 
cerning there  was  certainly  some  mute  witness 
to  convict  the  dainty  sinner.  But  I  had  gone 
hunting  all  the  day  with  all  my  wits  and  senses 
and  still  was  at  a  loss  to  find  it. 

'  The  Devil  take  it ! '  said  I  in  my  chagrin, '  I 
will  yet  be  at  the  end  of  this  puzzle.  Not  a 
sign  of  embarrassment  that  may  discover  her, 
but  she  shall  wear  it  by  my  contrivance.  I 
have  been  long-suffering,  I  have  taken  the  task 
with  too  great  a  patience,  and  too  signal  a 
modesty.  I  will  now  dare  all  and  meet  her 
with  her  own  audacity.' 


AN    ORDEAL    OF    THREE     131 

In  this  resolve  I  spent  the  morning,  but  it 
was  late  ere  I  had  mustered  spirit  for  the  new 
enterprise,  A  thousand  considerations  blocked 
the  way.  I  must  secure  each  apart,  and  in  a 
proper  disposition.  To  each  I  must  approach 
in  a  different  fashion  ;  with  each  must  renew 
my  confidences  of  the  twilight  And  again,  I 
was  beset  by  prickings  of  my  conscience,  lest 
what  I  was  to  undertake  should  be  an  act  dis- 
courteous, should  lay  too  onerous  an  obligation 
on  the  lady.  But  these  doubts  and  difficulties 
vanished  at  last  '  It  is  only  meet,'  I  mused, 
'  to  inflict  on  her  her  own  penalty  ;  and  if  in  the 
process  of  justice  two  innocents  be  involved 
also  in  the  sentence,  why,  they  suffer  for  their 
company,  and  have  no  cause  of  complaint, 
and  this  is  how  I  shall  know  her.  She  will 
surely  return,'  said  I, '  my  kiss,  and  as  she  kissed 
me  in  the  meadow,  so  will  her  lips  touch  mine, 
responsive  to  my  caress.'  .  .  . 

I  sought  my  room  distracted.  Alas !  Con- 
ceive me  plunged  deeper  and  deeper  in  the  toils 
of  wonder,  further  and  further  in  the  recesses 
of  despair.  I  know  not  which  lips  were  the 
softer ;  I  know  not  which  were  the  warmer ;  I 
know  not  which  of  the  three  returned  me  my 
kiss  the  most  readily  or  the  most  tenderly. 


THE  PORTRAIT  IN  THE  INN 

His  extreme  resemblance  to  myself  struck  me 
anew  as  I  looked  at  him.  The  identity  in  our 
personal  appearance  had  been  wont  to  bother 
me  from  time  to  time,  as  one  who  continually 
saw  his  double  mimicking  before  him.  As  boys, 
I  remember,  we  were  both  indifferent  to  our 
likeness,  and  I  fancy  that  he  carried  his  dis- 
regard into  his  adult  life.  If  he  reflected  upon 
it  at  all,  it  was  certainly  with  amusement,  for 
he  had  a  trick  of  inconsequent  laughter  and 
took  the  accidents  of  the  world  with  a  very 
smiling  gaiety,  which  I  had  always  envied. 
But  for  myself — the  knowledge  of  this  twin, 
when  I  had  him  to  my  face,  was  a  vague 
discomfort  It  seemed  preposterous  that  Nature 
should  have  stooped  to  the  jest,  when  her 
devices  were  so  prodigal  elsewhere.  We  had 
the  self-same  smile ;  the  self-same  expressions 
marked  the  self-same  features.     We  were  cast 

132 


THE    PORTRAIT    IN    THE    INN     133 

in  one  mould  with  a  nicety  foreign  to  her 
general  practice ;  and  if  we  diverged  it  was  in 
some  private  particulars  undiscovered  even  of 
our  friends.  The  set  and  habit  of  our  frames 
and  countenances  were  in  perfect  unison,  and 
yet  I  think  in  every  direction  our  characters 
had  taken  opposite  courses.  This  disparity 
within  so  close  a  resemblance  had  given  me 
a  grudge  against  the  coincidence,  as  I  could  not 
but  think  of  it  as  a  grotesque  freak  whereby  we 
were  more  for  the  amusement  than  the  wonder 
of  our  friends.  Something  of  this  annoyance 
possessed  me  as  I  noted  the  merry  manner  and 
complacent  temper  with  which  he  dwelt  upon 
his  news. 

'  I  wish  you  luck,'  said  I, '  the  best  of  luck, 
Philip.  I  suppose  the  thing  was  inevitable. 
At  thirty-two  this  sort  of  fact  is  very  near.  If 
you  had  got  beyond  that  age  safely,  you  might 
have  gone  to  your  grave  a  decent  bachelor.' 

'  You  are  still  there,'  said  he  with  a  grin.  The 
reminder  irritated  me,  but  I  had  never  the 
heart  to  visit  my  peevishness  upon  him.  I 
smiled. 

'  True,'  I  answered,  '  I  'm  not  a  braggart 
yet ;  it  is  only  the  voice  of  philosophy  speaks  in 


134    THE    PORTRAIT    IN    THE    INN 

me.  As  for  myself,  I  have  imagined  the  grand 
passion,  as  you  will  phrase  it,  and  have  its 
dimensions  pretty  well  by  heart  But  that,  I 
take  it,  is  the  safest  insurance  against  it.' 

*  I  don't  see  it,'  he  replied,  as  though  he  would 
dispute  my  point,  but,  having  little  of  a  head 
for  argument,  struck  out  impulsively  upon  a 
theme  that  was  more  to  his  liking.  *  I  can't 
see  your  prejudice  against  love.  It 's  divine  ; 
it 's  immortal.  Heaven !  how  it  thrills  a  man, 
Dick !  You  have  only  got  to  furnish  yourself 
with  my  soul  for  a  day,  and  you  '11  spend  the 
rest  of  your  life  eating  your  words.' 

*  Love,'  said  I, '  is  admirable  after  dinner.' 

*  It 's  an  infamy,'  he  broke  out, '  it 's  a  sacri- 
lege, a  blasphemy.  That  I  should  have  a 
brother  born  to  such  feelings !  And  outwardly 
we  are  replicas,'  he  ended  with  a  laugh. 

*  I  believe  in  your  love,'  said  I,  *  but  I  can't 
fit  it  into  my  life.  I  think  I  should  ask  a 
miracle  with  mine.  I  have,  my  dear  fellow, 
every  desire  and  ambition  to  be  married,  but 
the  thing  hangs  fire  ;  there  is  no  Prometheus.' 

'  Well,  well ;  you  will  have  it  one  day,'  he 
concluded,  and  fell  to  his  raptures  again.  I  let 
him  run  on,  scarcely  heeding  his  enthusiasms, 


THE    PORTRAIT    IN    THE    INN     135 

for  my  thoughts  had  turned  inwards  upon  my- 
self and  my  own  flat  life.  I  had  but  newly 
recovered  from  a  long  illness,  and  had  come 
back  to  the  world  with  no  particular  zest  for 
living.  The  convalescence  to  which  in  my 
extremest  hours  of  pain  I  had  looked  forward 
with  delight  had  been  fulfilled  drearily  enough  ; 
and  now  that  once  more  I  had  the  liberty  of 
the  streets  the  occupations  and  interest  of  the 
prospect  seemed  stale  and  empty.  It  was 
perhaps  a  condition  of  the  body ;  I  know,  at 
least,  it  was  no  healthy,  natural  distaste  that 
possessed  me.  But  the  effort  of  existence 
appeared  too  severe  for  the  reward,  and  I 
could  not  imagine  myself  informed  with  any 
individual  interest.  I  drew  out  of  these  miser- 
able reflections  to  find  him  silent,  and  scanning 
me  with  some  affectionate  concern. 

'  Are  you  quite  yourself  now  ? '  he  asked. 

*  In  excellent  health,'  I  answered  ;  '  only  a 
little  astonished  at  the  zeal  with  which  I  fought 
for  life.  Is  there  anything  worth  the  struggle, 
my  dear  Philip  ?  Is  there  anything — save  this 
love  of  yours  ? '  I  added  with  a  smile. 

He  invited  me  cheerfully  to  be  his  companion 
on  his  journey.     He  was  going,  it  appeared,  to 


136     THE    PORTRAIT    IN    THE    INN 

Paris  for  a  few  weeks  ;  thence  returning  to  his 
lady-love  with  all  the  hot-foot  ardour  of  his 
kind.  I  excused  myself  with  my  best  grace ; 
his  vigour  promised  to  appal  me,  and  I  was 
best  unembarrassed,  I  thought.  Ere  he  left  he 
had  resumed  his  extravagant  mood  of  happi- 
ness, was  pressing  me  with  invitations  to  call 
upon  the  lady's  family,  and  was  begging  me 
to  follow  his  wise  example.  And  when  he 
finally  got  away  it  was  to  run  down  the  steps 
with  a  peal  of  laughter,  and  all  the  light-hearted- 
ness  of  a  schoolboy. 

The  matter  of  his  visit  was  not  of  inordinate 
moment,  and  yet  thoughts  induced  by  it  strayed 
persistently  through  my  brain.  What,  I  re- 
flected, if  it  were  possible,  after  all,  to  acquire 
a  fresh  interest  in  the  world  by  this  simple 
procedure  of  marriage  ?  I  had  made  an  experi- 
ment over  many  years  in  the  single  state,  and 
at  the  end  could  not  boast  my  fortune.  I  could 
scarcely  see  how,  at  the  close  of  an  equal  term, 
it  were  easy  to  be  in  a  worse  case.  Indeed,  the 
change,  since  it  was  to  something,  might  import 
some  new  faiths  and  feelings  with  its  facts  ; 
might  indue  me  with  a  novel  vitality ;  might 
arrest  that  decline  upon  a  mechanical  round  in 


THE    PORTRAIT    IN    THE    INN     137 

which  there  were  few  distractions  and  fewer 
pleasures,  and  which  now  seemed  to  be  my 
prospect.  The  fancy  struck  suddenly  to  my 
heart,  as  a  flash ;  for  one  second  of  time  I  felt 
the  warmth  of  the  convert  thrilling  through 
my  body,  and  then  the  sensation  trailed  off  in 
incredulity.  There  had  been  a  point  of  fascina- 
tion in  it,  but  it  came  only  to  a  chance  of  the 
instant,  as  it  were,  through  a  chink  from  an 
invisible,  imaginary  world  full  of  light  and 
mystery.  Forthright  it  faded  from  my  mind 
without  restraint,  and  there  was  the  world  again 
before  me,  as  dull  and  as  indifferent  as  ever. 

But  the  dog-days  were  hard  upon  us,  and  I 
must  needs  be  packing  for  some  fresher  air  than 
London's.  It  would  have  saved  me  a  score  of 
small  worries  had  I  fallen  in  with  Philip's  in- 
vitation, and  several  times  in  the  next  fortnight 
I  recalled  it  with  regret.  I  had  no  desire  to  be 
off,  but  the  change  grew  inevitable  as  the  days 
wore  on,  and  after  all  the  disposition  of  my 
body  mattered  little ;  I  should  be  ^till  in  the 
possession  of  the  same  disconsolate  spirit.  I 
scarcely  knew  what  had  directed  my  choice  of 
the  seaside.  For  one  thing  I  was  averse  from 
a  trip   abroad,   merely,   I   think,  because   the 


138     THE   PORTRAIT    IN    THE    INN 

distance  would  put  me  to  a  longer  discomfort. 
And  the  sea,  at  this  time,  should  be  full  of 
breezes  pleasant  enough  to  face.  But  it  was 
with  little  elation  I  got  aboard  my  train,  and 
turned  my  attention  idly  to  the  morning  papers, 
in  which  I  had  already  failed  to  discover  a 
single  thread  of  interest.  The  sun  shone  hotly 
upon  the  meadows,  and  within  the  narrow  con- 
fines of  my  carriage  I  grew  clammy  and  restless. 
Three  hours  of  such  a  passage  seemed  likely  to 
drive  me  frantic.  I  had  no  fellow-passengers  ; 
not  a  page  in  my  volumes  drew  my  interest ; 
the  landscape  with  its  flying  monotony  of 
hedges,  elms,  and  fields  became  as  obvious  and 
as  unassertive  to  the  sight  as  the  rattle  of  the 
train  to  my  ear.  The  telegraph  poles,  shooting 
past  at  settled  intervals,  as  it  were  with  per- 
ceptible sound,  at  first  an  amiable  interruption, 
came  soon  to  be  a  part  of  the  mechanical  mono- 
tony by  which  I  was  surrounded.  At  the  close 
of  an  hour  I  had  lost  the  passive  resignation 
with  which  I  had  set  out,  and  was  fretting 
against  the  limits  of  my  position.  We  had 
reached  Northorpe,  I  think,  when  I  half  formed 
the  resolution  to  abandon  my  journey.  I  was 
out  on  the  platform  with  my  baggage,  my  mind 


THE    PORTRAIT    IN    THE    INN     139 

rocking  somewhat  irresolutely  betwixt  the  two 
ideas,  when  the  train  suddenly  took  the  decision 
upon  itself  and  slipped  out  of  the  station. 

It  was  a  mean  and  petty  village  at  which 
I  had  alighted  ;  how  it  had  achieved  the  dignity 
of  a  station  I  cannot  say.  There  was  no  house 
had  a  look  of  consequence  in  the  place.  The 
country  ran  into  many  ridges  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  deep  woods  lay  in  patches  on  the 
summits  of  those  heights.  But  saving  for  this 
outlook  upon  a  broken  landscape  the  village 
itself  lacked  beauty.  I  found  a  fair  inn  of  a 
rustic  sort,  at  which  I  stored  my  property ; 
and  then  set  out  for  a  walk  upon  the  hills. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  ere  I  returned, 
pretty  tired,  from  my  ramble.  The  landlord, 
who  had,  it  appeared,  fallen  from  a  better  posi- 
tion, served  me  himself,  and  grew  talkative  over 
his  task.  The  house  was  but  little  frequented, 
I  was  informed  ;  was  larger  than  it  should  be  ; 
but  had  fulfilled  other  purposes  in  the  coaching 
days.  He  had  only  the  village  from  which  to 
draw  his  custom,  and  some  such  stray  visitor 
as  myself.  He  commended  to  me  a  bottle  of 
his  best  wine,  which  I  found  he  had  hardly  over- 
praised, and  left  me,  finally,  to  it  and  ray  own 


140    THE    PORTRAIT    IN    THE    INN 

thoughts.  The  dusk  had  fallen  ere  I  finished 
my  meal,  and  throwing  open  the  window  which 
overlooked  a  pretty  strip  of  garden,  I  turned 
up  the  lamp  and  lay  back  in  my  chair  with 
my  cigar.  The  light  shone  diffusely  upon  the 
walls  of  the  long  room,  which  I  perceived  were 
adorned  with  numerous  prints,  most  of  old  date, 
mainly  pictures  of  horses  and  masters  of  hounds, 
but  some  of  more  recent  and  German  origin — 
rude  oleographs  and  terrible  engravings.  But 
one  there  was,  of  a  different  character  from  its 
neighbours,  that  arrested  my  wandering  atten- 
tion. The  thing  was  not  ill-done,  though  it 
was  by  no  means  good ;  but  it  was  the  face 
that  held  my  eyes.  The  girl  was  dressed  in 
summer  white,  her  collar  loosened  about  her 
throat  as  though  the  day  were  sultry  ;  and  she 
looked  forth  at  me,  leaning  upon  the  gate  of  a 
meadow.  The  expression  of  her  features  was 
wistful  and  silent ;  it  was  as  though  she  desired 
to  speak  and  was  yet  dumb  ;  her  eyes  searched 
me ;  her  lips  were  parted  in  a  rift  of  eagerness. 
The  face  was  of  a  beauty  so  delicate  that  it 
caught  and  stayed  my  breath ;  out  of  the  flat 
paper  it  regarded  me  with  its  immeasurable 
eyes.     The  gaze  haunted  me. 


THE    PORTRAIT    IN    THE    INN     141 

The  wine  I  had  drunk  had  lifted  me  from 
my  dreamy  state  of  indifference,  and  the  pro- 
spect of  the  morrow  did  not  rise  so  blackly  in 
my  mind.  There  was  a  kind  of  pleasure  even 
in  the  green  trees,  the  quiet  pool,  the  slow 
rustling  of  the  elms  before  the  inn.  I  rose 
from  my  chair  and  moved  to  the  window. 
Outside,  the  night,  which  had  fallen  thick  with 
stars,  was  very  peaceful.  A  cool  wind  played 
about  the  garden  plot ;  a  cow  was  lowing  over 
the  meadows  from  some  byre.  For  the  first 
time  for  a  twelvemonth  I  had  the  feeling  of 
content.  I  turned  and  looked  about  the  room, 
and  the  eyes  of  that  picture  were  watching  me 
softly,  appealingly.  The  flame  sank  in  the 
lamp,  and,  diverted  by  the  accident,  I  crossed 
to  the  table  and  turned  up  the  wick.  As  I  did 
so  I  raised  my  head,  and  the  eyes  looked  to- 
wards me  beseechingly.  A  little  thrill  passed 
down  me ;  I  went  straight  to  the  wall  and 
stared  into  the  picture.  I  could  have  fancied 
that  the  parted  lips  were  opened  a  little  further, 
that  the  eyes  beamed  a  little  brighter,  that  the 
air  of  that  face  grew  more  sprightly.  The 
fancy  was  strong  upon  me.  I  sat  down  at  the 
table. 


142    THE    PORTRAIT    IN   THE    INN 

'  Here,'  said  I,  turning  to  her  with  my  lifted 
glass — *  Here,  sweet,  I  will  drink  to  your  eyes. 
I  have  come  to  this  place,  a  stranger  in  need  of 
sympathy,  and  they  have  given  me  welcome. 
Your  face  has  smiled  down  upon  me  at  my 
solitary  meal ;  your  lips  have  striven  to  con- 
verse with  me  ;  your  eyes  have  watched  me 
incessantly  throughout  this  evening.  Dear, 
you  have  kept  me  company  with  the  prettiest 
of  faces.  I  should  be  a  boor  to  deny  you  this 
toast.  To  you,  sweetheart,  even  to  you,  who 
have  come  betwixt  me  and  the  devil  this  night, 
I  drain  this  glass.  To  your  eyes,  my  beloved, 
to  your  eyes.' 

The  picture  smiled  at  me ;  but  still  the 
bosom  leaned  upon  the  gate,  the  hands  still 
clasped  each  other  over  the  topmost  rail ;  still 
the  eyes  searched  me  wistfully  and  dreamily, 
as  though  they  were  looking  for  some  one  that 
came  not.     I  rose  in  my  seat 

'  Dear,'  said  I,  '  I  will  come.  Is  it  for  me 
you  keep  so  steadfast  a  watch  ?  Is  it  for  me 
your  pensive  eyes  look  out  into  the  dusk  ? 
You  shall  wait  no  longer.  You  have,  my 
dearest,  turned  a  doubter  into  the  most  ardent 
of  lovers.' 


THE   PORTRAIT    IN    THE    INN     143 

I  burst  into  laughter.  The  wine  seemed  to 
have  gone  to  my  head,  and  yet  I  had  drunk 
but  little.  The  blood  rushed  along  the  arteries 
and  my  pulse  ticked  in  my  forehead  like  a 
clock.  The  face  watched  me  slowly  from  the 
room. 

I  had  the  whim  to  bid  her  good-bye  in  the 
morning,  which  I  did  with  equal  ceremony. 
I  had  thought  that  the  peculiar  impression  I 
had  taken  from  so  common  a  print  would  have 
worn  off  by  daylight,  that  the  face  would  con- 
vince me  merely  of  an  indiscretion  in  my  wine, 
not  of  its  own  distinctive  qualities.  And  I  got 
a  little  queer  shock  to  find  the  pleasure  renewed 
— a  shock  not  disagreeable,  but  very  sudden 
and  odd.  When  I  left  Northorpe  later  in  the 
day,  I  had  settled  upon  no  destination.  As  it 
chanced  I  took  the  train  a  little  further  towards 
my  seaport,  got  half  an  hour  or  so  upon  my 
way,  and  finally  descended  upon  a  hamlet  in 
the  thick  of  some  forest-land.  Its  name  I  have 
forgotten,  but  that  is  of  little  consequence. 
I  had  the  choice  of  inns  on  this  occasion,  and 
decided  for  one  that  stood  at  the  foot  of  a 
black  strip  of  pine-wood,  on  a  certain  elevation, 
somewhat  remote  from  the  noises  of  the  village. 


144    THE    PORTRAIT   IN    THE    INN 

It  put  me  in  a  better  temper  to  be  spending  my 
holiday  after  so  eccentric  a  fashion  ;  and,  more- 
over, the  air  was  fine,  the  roads  were  excellent, 
and  here,  too,  I  had  an  admirably  wholesome 
dinner.  The  lights  faded  out  from  the  west, 
the  skyline  of  which  was  ragged  with  waving 
trees ;  and  after  the  inns  had  emptied  and  the 
sounds  of  the  departing  villagers  retired  into 
silence,  I  took  another  stroll  through  the  church- 
yard. The  moon  was  rising  very  gravely  ;  the 
stars  shone  like  jewels ;  a  stream  ran  with  a 
soft  music  at  the  bottom  of  the  acre.  I  leaned 
over  the  footbridge  and  stared  into  the  water. 
In  this  running  brook  I  could  see  faces  gather- 
ing and  dissolving  ;  many  stories  glinted  out 
of  the  mirror  upon  me.  My  own  face  lay  upon 
the  water  in  a  black  patch  of  shadow,  seeming 
to  take  part  in  these  drifting  histories.  But  it 
was  in  vain  that  I  tried  to  follow  one  to  its  end. 
No  sooner  had  I  the  glimpse  of  its  motive 
than  the  tale  itself  was  gathered  into  the  eddies 
and  floated  down  the  stream  in  a  tangle  of 
lights  and  shadows.  The  clock  in  the  belfry 
struck  eleven ;  a  rook  complained  from  its 
neighbouring  colony;  I  yawned  and  went 
back  to  bed. 


THE    PORTRAIT    IN    THE    INN     145 

The  moonlight  was  striking  direct  through 
my  window,  and  lay  so  brightly  on  the  floor 
that  I  did  not  trouble  to  use  my  candle,  but 
undressed  by  the  pale  glamour.  I  had  been, 
I  suppose,  an  hour  asleep  when  I  awoke  with 
a  feeling  of  restlessness.  The  night  had  grown 
warmer,  and  I  rolled  about  in  my  bed  to  find 
a  position  cool  enough  for  stillness ;  but  my 
efforts  were  vain,  and  at  last  I  lit  a  candle  and 
read.  It  must  have  been  some  ten  minutes 
later  that,  glancing  up  from  my  book,  I  found 
myself  staring  at  the  picture.  It  hung  upon 
the  wall  at  the  foot  of  my  bed,  and  the  eyes 
were  bent  upon  me  with  the  self-same  wistful- 
ness  that  had  touched  my  fancy  on  the  previous 
evening.  I  started  at  the  sight  and  the  volume 
dropped  upon  the  floor ;  but  the  eyes  rested 
upon  my  face.  A  warm  flush  of  sensation, 
something  between  pain  and  desire,  throbbed 
through  my  body.  It  was,  of  course,  but  a 
coincidence ;  these  prints  were  the  common 
property  of  the  countryside.  Yet  the  instant 
repetition  of  a  face  that  had  made  so  deep  and 
so  recent  a  mark  upon  my  mind  filled  me  with 
a  kind  of  awe.  That  face  was  sacrosanct  and 
virgin,  and  it  yearned  for  me.  I  gazed  intently 
K 


146     THE   PORTRAIT    IN    THE    INN 

for  awhile,  and  then  a  sort  of  tenderness  in- 
spired my  blood.  I  kissed  my  hand  with  a 
little  laugh  under  my  breath. 

*  Good-night,'  said  I, '  fair  mistress.  And  so 
you  will  even  keep  ward  upon  me  here  too. 
Dear,  you  have  been  much  in  my  thoughts  ; 
your  face  has  crept  about  with  me  all  day,  and 
now  you  are  here  in  the  flesh  to  comfort  me. 
How  long  have  you  waited  ? '  I  asked  ;  '  how 
many  weary  hours  have  you  watched  for  your 
coming  lover  ? ' 

I  blew  out  the  light  and  fell  asleep  in  a 
curious  content.  The  night  passed  lightly, 
but  in  my  dreams  the  face  came  and  went. 
I  could  scarcely  say  I  had  been  dreaming,  for 
there  was  no  sense  of  time  or  sequence  in  my 
visions;  only  that  face  recurred  at  intervals, 
lighting  and  fading,  as  a  magic  portrait  cast 
upon  a  screen.  I  have  slept  more  soundly,  but 
never,  I  think,  with  a  greater  possession  of 
pleasure. 

The  re-apparition  dwelt  in  my  thoughts  the 
best  part  of  the  following  day.  A  feeling  of 
pure  delight  kept  occupying  my  soul.  I  seemed, 
in  a  word,  to  have  taken  some  strange  elixir 
by  which  I  was  lifted  quite  out  of  my  apathy. 


THE    PORTRAIT    IN    THE    INN     147 

The  face  made  its  home  with  me ;  I  had  it  as 
surely  printed  upon  my  memory  as  it  was  upon 
the  artist's  paper.  And  what  was  more,  with 
these  two  surprises  I  was  in  secure  expectation 
of  another.  I  should  meet  it  again  for  certain  ; 
at  my  next  inn  it  would  confront  me  as  pathe- 
tically and  as  sweetly  as  now.  I  had  the  whim 
that  it  mattered  nothing  where  I  went,  where 
I  was  to  rest  next — the  picture  would  greet  me 
there  without  fail.  I  laughed  cheerfully  to  my- 
self as  I  considered  my  plans  for  the  day,  and 
finally  made  my  next  stage  a  place  exceedingly 
distant,  a  tiny  village  in  the  west,  picked  out 
at  a  guess  on  the  maps,  at  which  I  arrived  late 
in  the  evening,  very  dusty  and  overtired.  You 
may  not  conceive  my  disappointment  when  I 
found  my  picture  was  not  here.  The  sense  of 
vacancy  that  fell  numb  upon  me  was  a  witness 
to  the  sorry  condition  of  my  nerves,  showed 
how  far  the  mad  humour  had  got  into  my  blood. 
There  was  no  sign  of  her  in  the  house,  and 
with  a  grimace  at  my  own  folly  I  strove  to 
dismiss  the  absurd  fantasy  from  my  mind. 

The  place  was  pretty  enough,  and  was  in  the 
height  of  summer  perfection.  Rain  had  fallen 
overnight,  and  the  pleasant  smell  of  earth  was 


148     THE    PORTRAIT    IN    THE    INN 

abroad  in  the  air.  The  day  I  spent  in  wander- 
ing without  special  intention,  listening  to  the 
gossips,  and  half  finishing  plans  for  the  future. 
I  had  walked  out  upon  the  common,  which  ran 
on  a  pretty  steep  incline  to  the  hills,  and  near 
about  five  in  the  afternoon  was  feeling  some- 
what of  fatigue.  At  the  border  of  the  common 
were  some  smiling  meadows,  in  one  of  which 
I  took  refuge  from  the  sun,  throwing  myself 
under  the  shelter  of  a  grove  of  ash-trees.  I 
must  have  fallen  asleep,  for  when  I  awoke  the 
westering  sun  was  retiring  from  the  valley, 
and  the  air  was  much  cooler.  The  prospect 
of  golden  lights  was  so  fine,  and  I  had  re- 
covered so  much  from  my  snatch  of  sleep, 
that  I  sat  up,  the  better  to  take  in  its  beauties. 
As  I  did  so  I  grew  aware  of  a  neighbour,  and 
turning  my  head  saw  some  one  at  the  gate. 

The  sudden  impression  of  my  discovery  upon 
me  was  so  startling  that  my  eyes  were  held  by 
the  vision  while  you  might  have  counted  a 
minute.  She  had  taken  off  one  glove,  as  she 
was  shown  in  the  picture ;  her  hands  were 
clasped  together ;  her  face,  bent  forward,  was 
turned  a  little  from  me,  with  the  familiar  aspect 
of  that  visiting    print.      There  was    not  one 


THE   PORTRAIT    IN   THE    INN     149 

particular  1  could  note  to  divorce  her  from 
the  portrait.  An  exclamation  sprang  from  my 
lips  as  I  rose  to  my  feet,  and  at  the  sound  she 
moved  her  head  and  saw  me.  Just  as  it  had 
happened  in  my  dreams  these  past  two  days, 
so  now  she  gave  a  little  cry  of  welcome,  a  smile 
ran  over  her  features,  she  made  as  though  to 
open  the  gate  that  stood  between  us.  As  she 
fumbled  with  the  latch  I  drew  near  like  one 
walking  in  shadowland,  watching  her  face  with 
fearful  admiration.  But  at  this  the  wraith,  as 
I  had  half  imagined  her,  broke  into  a  merry 
laugh. 

'  How  you  have  stared  1 '  said  she ;  then 
stopped  and  regarded  me  anxiously. 

The  fall  of  her  voice  on  the  soft  evening  air 
stirred  me  from  my  reverie,  and  I  perceived  her 
on  a  sudden  to  be  truly  corporeal  and  very 
proximate.  There  was  no  spark  of  wonder 
lit  my  eyes  as  I  took  her  hand  and  gazed  into 
her  blue  orbs  steadfastly  ;  no  flash  of  awe  held 
me  silent  The  event  had  come,  it  seemed,  as 
of  nature ;  that  she  and  I  should  be  there 
together,  that  she  had  waited  for  me  at  the 
gate  as  she  had  waited  in  the  picture,  seemed  to 
me  as  right  and  inevitable  as  life  itself,  or  death. 


ISO     THE    PORTRAIT    IN    THE    INN 

*  Dear,'  I  said, '  I  have  come  at  last.'  I  took 
her  face  between  my  hands  and  scanned  it 
closely,  drinking  from  the  deeps  of  its  gay 
beauties.  '  How  I  have  dreamed  of  you  !  How 
often  have  I  seen  your  face  like  this ! ' 

She  laughed,  a  trifle  nervously,  as  though 
struck  with  a  sudden  diffidence ;  but  nestling 
to  me  the  next  moment  met  my  look  with 
happy  rapture. 

*  You  were  so  long,'  she  murmured  tenderly. 
I  kissed  her  lips.  The  valley  was  full  of  soft, 
burning  scents ;  the  light  stood  on  the  highest 
hill-tops.  Her  skirts  shook  in  the  breeze,  and 
her  breaths  rustled  the  bodice  on  her  bosom. 
There  was  a  deep  and  peaceful  silence  about 
us.  I  held  her  to  me  tightly,  my  hand  smoothing 
the  warm  flesh  of  her  cheeks. 

'  How  long  you  have  been  away ! '  she  said  ; 
*  and  was  Paris  so  very  full  of  attractions  ? ' 

The  words  fell  upon  dull  ears.  I  scarcely 
took  their  meaning.     She  continued — 

'You  are  strange,'  she  said,  'and  changed, 
Philip.' 

I  started,  but  I  still  held  her  face  to  me. 
'You  have  grown  more  serious,'  she  went  on. 
'  Is  anything  wrong,  dear  ? '  and  looked  up  at 


THE   PORTRAIT    IN    THE    INN     151 

me  with  so  enchanting  a  timorousness  as  to  set 
my  heart  throbbing  heavily. 

*  Nothing,'  I  said,  *  nothing ;  but  I  love  you,  I 
love  you.' 

Her  voice  rose  and  sank  through  my  dreams 
— sweet  and  gay ;  the  while  I  had  her  folded 
to  me,  listening  as  some  one  far  away  to  her 
talk  and  the  confidences  of  her  pure  soul.  In 
truth  I  had  fallen  suddenly  from  heaven  upon 
hell.  The  gift  that  some  providence  or  benign 
chance  had  sent  me  I  had  taken  without 
question  or  wonder,  for  it  had  seemed  to  issue 
straight  from  my  precedent  surprises ;  I  had 
risen  to  the  proper  emotion  as  one  prepared 
and  forewarned.  And  now  in  an  instant  I  had 
lost  my  pre-eminence,  my  joy  fled  from  me  at  a 
stroke,  and  I  perceived  that  I  was  but  a  factor 
in  a  grotesque  and  horrid  joke  played  upon  me 
by  coincidence.  And  as  I  stood  there  upon 
the  margin  of  the  field,  with  all  high  heaven 
singing  above  me,  and  the  fairest  scene  ever 
set  by  nature  spread  before  my  eyes,  the 
memory  of  Philip's  rapture,  the  rush  of  his 
eager  words,  the  name  and  praise  of  his  lady- 
love, returned  to  me  as  vividly  as  though  I 
were  listening  to  his  voice.     I  knew  her  name 


152    THE   PORTRAIT   IN   THE    INN 

— this  ardent  miracle  of  beauty ;  her  descent, 
her  private  history,  the  details  of  her  environ- 
ment were  all  now  in  my  knowledge.  She  was 
twenty  some  three  months  back ;  she  was  the 
only  daughter  of  the  squire ;  she  had  a  devout 
attachment  to  her  lover;  she  was  the  most 
innocent,  the  most  bewitching  of  her  sex.  As 
these  thoughts  burned  in  me  like  molten  lead  I 
laughed  in  my  bitterness  and  pushed  her  from 
me  roughly.  Her  face  took  on  a  look  of  quick 
perplexity  and  distress.  How  her  emotions 
ran  upon  her  features  ! 

'  You  are  changed,  Philip,'  said  she. 
I  pulled  her  to  me,  laughing  wildly. 
'  My  dearest,  changed  only  in  this,  that  I  love 
you  now  with  the  heat  of  fever.' 

I  kissed  her  in  my  madness,  and  she  sur- 
rendered herself  shrinkingly  to  me.  '  This 
thing,'  I  cried  in  my  heart,  'has  gone  beyond 
me.  I  will  see  the  end,  whatever  it  be.'  Philip 
and  his  merry  laughter  vanished  out  of  my 
mind.  I  took  her  arm  and  we  went  forth 
together,  happy  and  unafraid.  She  babbled 
sweetly  of  the  flowers,  of  some  pets,  old  friends 
of  mine,  of  her  generous  father,  of  different 
people    of   that   vicinity   with  whom    I    was 


THE   PORTRAIT    IN    THE    INN     153 

acquainted.  And  wrapt  in  my  happiness  I 
listened,  walking  by  her  side,  filling  my  soul 
with  her  loveliness,  and  thinking  nothing  of  the 
morrow.  I  can  remember  how  the  squire  met 
me,  with  his  cheerful  face.  His  talk  was  simple, 
of  dogs  and  horses,  and  his  garden  ;  but  it 
seemed  to  me  he  was  speaking  deep  wisdom. 
I  must  try  *  Crusader '  again,  he  declared  ;  my 
feat  had  been  the  wonder  of  the  countryside. 
Poor  Dorothy  had  flown  into  a  fury  when  he 
had  vowed  I  should  take  the  jump  again  ;  and, 
that  availing  nothing,  into  tears.  He  laughed. 
I  looked  at  Dorothy.  Her  face,  surmounted 
with  a  hot  flush,  met  my  eyes  as  though  en- 
treating m.e  to  pardon  and  humour  her  frailty. 

'  I  think,'  said  I, ' "  Crusader "  must  look  for 
another  rider.' 

She  thanked  me  with  a  clap  of  her  hands  and 
a  smile.  And  I — I  laughed  sardonically,  for 
Philip,  gay  and  reckless,  came  debonairly  across 
my  vision. 

That  evening  was  one  of  superlative  charm. 
My  bags  were  fetched  (from  the  station,  I  ex- 
plained), and  we  dined  in  state  in  the  merriest 
of  humours.  My  return  must  be  celebrated, 
quoth  the  squire,  clinking  his  glass  gleefully 


154     THE    PORTRAIT    IN   THE    INN 

against  Dorothy's ;  the  old  wine  was  produced 
from  the  deepest  cellar,  and  we  drank  to  our 
common  happiness  and  devotion.  I  cannot 
recall  that  I  had  one  single  twinge  of  conscience 
that  night.  How  was  it  possible,  with  Dorothy- 
laughing  in  her  arm-chair,  and  despatching 
glances  of  singular  sweetness  and  intimate  con- 
fidence across  the  room  to  me  ?  I  talked  as  I 
had  never  talked  for  years ;  all  my  old  wit  and 
knowledge  came  back  to  my  service.  I  felt  I 
held  the  room,  nor  was  I  mistaken.  The  squire 
stared  and  winked  over  his  glass.  I  had  more 
in  my  head,  he  confessed,  than  he  had  ever 
fancied  ;  I  was  eloquent — that 's  what  he  would 
say ;  and  upon  his  soul  I  should  stand  for  the 
county.  And  Dorothy  clapped  her  hands  and 
listened,  with  her  head  against  her  father's  arm, 
watched  me  with  eyes  of  deep  and  growing 
affection.  Now  and  then  she  would  peep  into 
the  squire's  face,  as  though  to  remark  his 
astonishment  at  my  talk,  and  her  own  glance 
sparkled  with  admiration.  And  when  the  hours 
had  worn  on,  and  she  rose  to  leave  us,  she  took 
me  to  the  door. 

'  Philip,'  she  whispered, '  you  have  made  me 
very  happy,  dear — very  happy  * 


THE   PORTRAIT    IN   THE    INN     155 

Very  happy!  cried  the  room  from  all  its 
corners ;  very  happy !  murmured  the  elms  out 
on  the  lawn  ;  very  happy !  said  my  heart,  in 
answer.  I  sat  down  to  keep  the  squire  com- 
pany, the  words  ringing  in  my  ears.  If  only 
this  had  been  from  the  first !  If  only  it  were 
now  to  continue !  I  drank  that  night  deeply, 
and  the  old  man  kept  me  in  countenance.  But 
the  joy  had  intoxicated  me  more  than  the  wine, 
and  I  went  to  bed  singing  a  snatch  of  some 
glad  old  love-song  of  the  South. 

The  morning  brought  me  no  sobriety.  At 
dawn  I  was  wandering  upon  the  lawn  under 
her  window,  picking  the  freshest  rose  for  her 
bosom.  We  rode  and  walked  that  day,  each 
wrapt  in  the  other's  fellowship.  The  squire 
troubled  us  little,  being  a  master  of  small  cere- 
monies on  his  estate,  and  there  was  no  one  to 
put  an  embargo  upon  our  reckless  impulses. 
At  times  I  strove  to  turn  and  face  my  position, 
but  the  efforts  ended  without  a  definite  achieve- 
ment I  reasoned,  too,  with  myself,  and  per- 
suaded my  own  conscience.  She  loved  me,  it 
was  clear,  and,  indeed,  more  dearly  than  ever, 
as  she  confessed.  The  trick  had  been  played 
us  both   by  a  whimsical  fate,  and  were   I   to 


156    THE    PORTRAIT    IN   THE    INN 

discover  my  proper  individuality,  she  still  loved 
me.  An  extreme  resemblance  had  started  her 
on  the  mistake,  and  now  who  was  to  say 
whether  her  love  was  Philip  or  I  ?  Were  both 
to  stand  before  her,  would  she  not  choose  at  a 
venture,  haphazard ;  if  indeed  she  did  not  hit 
upon  me,  in  whom  she  had  discovered  new 
virtues  and  larger  powers  ?  So  I  consoled  my 
scruples,  with  no  thought  for  the  tragedy  that 
was  at  hand. 

It  was  on  the  second  day,  midway  between 
noon  and  the  fall  of  dusk,  that  the  end  came. 
We  were  upon  the  lawn,  near  the  little  arbour 
of  trees  that  overlooked  the  heath.  She  had 
plucked  some  forget-me-nots  and  was  fastening 
them  into  my  coat  when  I  heard  the  sound  of 
feet,  and,  looking  up,  saw  him  coming  down  the 
garden  walk  with  his  sprightliest  manner.  But 
she  heard  and  saw  nothing,  for  she  was  chatting 
prettily  as  she  inserted  the  flowers,  and  at  that 
moment  he  turned  off  upon  the  grass  and  his 
approach  was  noiseless.  I  think  he  did  not 
take  us  in  at  the  outset,  but  presently,  pulling 
up  with  a  start  when  some  twenty  paces  away, 
stared  open-mouthed  upon  me.  She  chattered 
sweetly  in   my  ears ;    my  eyes  watched  him 


THE    PORTRAIT    IN    THE    INN     157 

unflinchingly ;  I  made  no  sign  of  recognition. 
I  can  feel  now  the  haze  that  crept  over  my  wits, 
the  hollow  that  formed  quickly  in  my  heart. 
But  he  threw  up  his  hands,  nodded  once  or 
twice  swiftly,  as  though  he  had  at  last  found 
some  clue  to  the  mystery  of  our  relations ; 
signalled  to  me  privately,  and  then,  stalking 
stealthily  along  the  lawn,  made  towards  us 
without  a  sound.  My  gaze  was  fixed  on  him, 
scarcely  understanding.  I  was  conscious  that 
Dorothy  had  stopped,  and  was  looking  at  me 
inquiringly. 

'  You  are  in  a  dream,'  she  said,  and  laughed. 
She  turned  her  head  and  followed  the  direction 
of  my  eyes.  Philip  rose  suddenly  to  his  full 
height  and  sprang  upon  her  playfully.  She 
gave  a  piteous  cry  and  shrank  back — back  from 
both  of  us  ;  her  eyes  moved  with  a  terrible  look 
of  fear  from  him  to  me,  from  me  to  him. 

'  Dolly,  Dolly,'  he  cried, '  what 's  the  matter  ? 
Have  I  startled  you  too  much  ?    I  'm  so  sorry ! ' 

I  can  scarcely  say  I  had  any  feeling,  now, 
but  the  one — a  numb,  dull  pain  throughout  my 
body.  I  kept  my  eyes  on  her,  but  I  was  only 
vaguely  conscious  of  my  actions.  I  know  I 
had  the  knife  which  I  had  used  for  the  flowers, 


158     THE    PORTRAIT    IN    THE    INN 

full  open  in  my  palm,  and  was  pressing  my 
fingers  fiercely  upon  it ;  the  blood  was  trickling 
from  my  hands.  I  said  no  word.  She  looked 
at  me,  her  face  white  and  startled. 

*  Dolly,  Dolly ! '  cried  Philip  in  distress.  *  Dick, 
what  is  this  ?  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  How 
came  you  here  ? ' 

I  still  made  no  answer ;  and  then  she  spoke. 
'  Is  it  true  ? '  she  said  in  a  low,  fierce  voice.  '  Is 
it  true  ?    You  are  not  Philip  ? ' 

I  laughed. 

'  Philip  ? '  I  answered.  '  No,  not  Philip,  only 
his  brother,  who  has  the  misfortune  to  be  his 
double.* 

She  trembled  like  a  reed. 

'  O  you  coward  ! '  she  cried  ;  '  you  coward  ! ' 

I  clenched  my  hand  ;  the  blood  gushed  from 
my  fingers.  Turning  upon  my  heel  I  walked 
slowly  down  the  pathway  to  the  gate.  As  I 
lifted  the  latch  I  looked  back  and  saw  that  she 
had  fallen  upon  the  sward,  and  that  Philip  was 
bending  over  her  caressingly. 


AKBAR    ALTS    COURTYARD 

Her  head  was  bent  as  if  in  deep  reflection,  and 
for  the  moment  I  wondered  if  my  eyes  had 
played  a  trick  upon  me.  But  as  she  passed  me 
for  the  third  time  she  repeated  the  mute  signal, 
and  I  turned  and  looked  after  her.  When  she 
had  reached  the  comer  she  stopped,  held  up 
her  hand,  and  beckoned.  My  doubts  dispelled 
with  the  flash  of  that  white  arm,  I  started  after 
her  at  a  leisurely  pace.  Here,  then,  out  of  the 
wonderful  night,  and  in  this  silent  city,  was 
some  adventure  quite  to  my  liking.  The 
thought  of  my  inn  fled  forthwith,  and  though 
the  hour  was  now  late  I  felt  my  spirit  rise 
freshly  at  this  promise  of  romance.  The  lights 
were  twinkling  faintly  in  heaven,  and  in  that 
soft  gloaming  I  could  see  her  white  robes 
flitting  before  me  in  the  dusk.  So  set  was  I 
in  speculation  upon  the  drift  of  my  strange 
encounter  that  I  did  not  particularly  remark 

169 


i6o   AKBAR   ALTS   COURTYARD 

the  direction  of  our  course.  It  ran  through 
narrow  streets  unknown  to  me,  and  into  the 
hinder  parts  of  the  city,  where  the  sultry  air 
hung  a  little  cooler,  owing,  doubtless,  to  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  bay,  which  here  cut  the 
town  in  a  heavy  jag.  Once  or  twice  my  guide, 
as  I  could  perceive,  glanced  over  her  shoulder 
as  though  to  discover  if  I  were  still  pursuing ; 
but  in  the  main  we  continued  as  we  had  set 
forth — at  a  respectable  distance,  and  with  a 
feint  of  independence.  At  length,  in  some 
quiet  street,  she  halted  before  a  massive  gate 
which  seemed  to  give  access  to  a  large  and 
handsome  house.  But  even  so  I  had  no  speech 
with  her,  for  as  I  hurried  forward  to  inquire  my 
mission  she  disappeared  into  the  darkness  of 
the  open  gateway,  and  I  caught  but  a  flying 
glimpse  of  her.  I  should  have  gained  little,  it 
appeared,  by  a  closer  view,  for  she  was  heavily 
veiled ;  but  at  least  I  had  seen  she  was  of  a 
lithe  and  youthful  figure. 

At  the  door  I  stood  for  a  second  irresolute. 
The  suspicion  that  I  had  been  misguided  into 
a  common  intrigue  rose  frankly  in  my  mind, 
but  the  next  moment  I  discharged  it  and 
plunged  into  the  blackness  of  the  entrance.     A 


AKBAR   ALTS   COURTYARD    i6i 

passage  of  some  sort,  along  which  I  groped, 
led  into  a  spacious  room  lighted  very  partially 
by  a  swinging  lamp.  My  guide  had  vanished, 
and  I  was  the  solitary  tenant  of  a  magnificent 
chamber.  It  was  well-nigh  bare  of  furniture, 
but  most  handsomely  designed  and  decorated. 
Though  the  light  was  shed  so  faintly  I  could 
still  make  out  the  noble  proportions  of  the 
pillars  which  sustained  the  ceiling,  and  were 
carven  into  strange  erotic  figures.  Somewhere 
from  the  mistiness  beyond  I  caught  the  plash 
of  falling  water,  and  a  pleasant  coolness  per- 
vaded the  atmosphere.  The  floor,  which  was 
bare  save  for  a  square  of  carpet  in  the  centre, 
was  of  mosaic  work  in  red  and  silver,  and 
seemed  to  my  eyes  prodigiously  fine.  The 
whole  aspect  of  the  place  was  witness  to  an 
owner  of  extreme  wealth. 

I  had  waited  some  time,  impatient  after  my 
observations  were  over,  but  still  a  good  deal 
curious,  when  a  noise  of  slippered  feet  fell  softly 
on  my  ears.  Was  it,  I  wondered,  my  fair  guide 
returning  to  explain  her  odd  invitation?  A 
moment  more,  and  I  was  disappointed  by  the 
entrance  through  the  pillared  corridor  of  an  old 
man,  dressed  in  the  loose  robe  worn  by  the  better 
L 


i62   AKBAR   ALTS   COURTYARD 

classes  in  those  parts.  He  advanced  to  the 
patch  of  carpet,  made  me  a  low  bow,  and 
squatted  carefully  upon  the  floor,  motioning  me 
to  do  likewise.  I  obeyed  his  gesture,  crossing 
my  legs  as  comfortably  as  I  was  able  after  his 
own  fashion,  and  we  regarded  each  other  for  a 
while  in  silence.  Then  suddenly  he  clapped 
his  hands,  and  at  the  sound  there  entered  a  tall 
black  with  coffee  and  narghiles,  which  he 
placed  upon  two  dwarf  tables  at  our  elbows. 
When  he  had  withdrawn,  the  old  man,  with 
another  salaam  of  extreme  courtesy,  handed 
me  a  pipe,  and  by  his  example  invited  me  to 
the  coffee.  We  smoked  and  sipped  without  a 
word.  This  entertainment  lasted  but  a  brief 
time — briefer,  indeed,  than  accords  with  the 
customs  of  the  country.  It  was  plain  he  was 
in  haste,  and  (I  judged)  equally  plain  he  had 
something  upon  his  mind.  For  all  his  dignity 
he  looked  troubled,  and  a  nervous  twitching 
showed  upon  his  face  ;  his  hand  trembled  as  he 
lifted  his  cup. 

'  I  think,  sir,'  said  I  at  last,  '  you  owe  me 
some  explanation  of  this  visit.  I  was  conducted 
to  your  door  by  an  emissary  from  your  house- 
hold, and  am  here  awaiting  your  pleasure,' 


AKBAR   ALI'S   COURTYARD    163 

He  laid  his  pipe  upon  the  table  and  stroked 
his  white  beard. 

'  Sir,'  said  he,  '  you  are  a  stranger  in  this  city, 
and  a  Giaour,  but  you  are  known  to  the  faithful. 
I,  at  least,  my  son,  have  heard  of  you  in  the 
bazaars.  You  are  wise ;  I  am  foolish.  When 
a  disease  arises  you  go  forth  and  destroy  it 
with  your  arts.  I,  my  son,'  he  said  mournfully, 
'  I  shut  up  my  house  and  bow  my  head.' 

'  There  is  some  one  ill  ? '  I  asked,  my  romance 
flitting  like  a  dream  o'  nights. 

He  assented  with  a  gesture. 

'111!'  he  exclaimed;  *ah,  smitten  with  a 
thousand  devils  !  I  cannot  keep  silence.  The 
light  of  my  eyes  is  fading.  My  dove,  the  apple 
of  my  heart,  is  in  the  grip  of  a  mortal  disease. 
How  can  I  bow  my  head  to  Allah,  my  son  ? ' 

He  leaned  his  face  upon  his  hands,  and  his 
frail  old  body  shook  with  emotion.  The  sight 
of  such  a  demonstration  in  one  of  so  impassive 
a  race  and  so  resigned  a  creed  stirred  my 
surprise.  I  think  he  noticed  it,  for  when  he 
lifted  his  head  again  he  took  a  puff  at  his  pipe 
and  resumed  more  calmly. 

'  You  will  wonder,  my  son,'  he  continued, 
'  that  I,  who  am  of  the  faithful,  should  intrust 


i64  AKBAR   ALTS   COURTYARD 

you,  a  Giaour,  with  my  secret  grief.  But  it  is 
the  will  of  Allah.  I  dreamed  a  dream.  Allah 
is  good.     It  shall  be  as  he  wills  it.' 

I  made  a  movement  to  rise,  and  be  done 
with  what  seemed  merely  a  duty  of  my  lost 
profession. 

*  Allah's  will  be  done,'  I  said  ;  *  if  it  be  urgent, 
let  me  see  this  sick  man.' 

He  raised  his  hand  as  though  to  deprecate 
my  haste  ;  his  anxiety  had  made  him  prompt, 
but  it  was  still  the  promptness  of  the  Oriental 
only. 

*  Listen,  my  son,'  he  said.  '  I  am  a  merchant 
of  this  city,  Akbar  Ali  by  name,  and  a  faithful 
servant  of  our  Prophet,  whose  name  be  blessed. 
From  my  youth  up  I  have  lived  among  riches, 
and  behold,  if  wealth  can  buy  back  my  beloved 
from  death  I  will  pour  out  my  gold  as  water.' 
He  leaned  forward  to  me ;  his  face  stiffened ; 
suspicion,  cunning,  and  greed  lurked  in  his 
eyes.  'The  presence  of  the  Giaour  in  my 
household  and  among  my  women  is  a  taint  for 
ever ;  but  this,  too,  shall  be  as  Allah  wills. 
You  shall  see  her  stretched  upon  the  couch, 
veiled,  and  sleeping  to  her  death.  This  shall 
you  do  in  the  presence  of  my  slaves,  who  will 


AKBAR  ALTS   COURTYARD    165 

bear  me  a  report  of  all   things.     Go  now,  I 
beseech  you,  and  heal  her.' 

He  clapped  his  hands  three  times,  and  the 
black  stole  noiselessly  out  of  the  twilight.  To 
him  the  merchant  spoke  in  an  undertone,  and 
the  slave  with  a  bow  begged  me  to  follow  him. 
From  the  corridor  we  passed  into  a  large  court- 
yard, open  to  the  sky,  and  thence  into  a  passage 
through  the  left  wing  of  the  house.  Presently 
we  arrived  at  a  small  antechamber,  in  which 
the  black  threw  off  his  slippers,  and  whence, 
with  his  finger  at  his  lips  as  for  silence,  he 
passed  into  a  lofty  room  that  overlooked  part 
of  the  courtyard.  It  was  lighted,  as  the  other 
had  been,  by  a  swinging  lamp,  and  was  fur- 
nished luxuriously.  Innumerable  signs  be- 
trayed the  sex  of  its  inhabitant,  and  had  these 
been  wanting,  the  prime  fact  lay  there  and 
stared  me  in  the  face.  The  couch  upon  which 
she  was  recumbent  was  very  richly  embroidered, 
like  all  else  in  the  room,  and  at  our  entrance 
she  made  no  movement,  but  remained  supine 
and  with  a  certain  rigidity  beneath  her  wrap- 
pings. The  lamp  illumined  her  fully,  and  I 
could  perceive  the  bosom  heaving  slowly,  but 
of  face  or  body  nought  was  visible.     Save  this 


i66   AKBAR   ALI'S   COURTYARD 

indication  of  life  it  might  have  been  some 
profusion  of  fine  garments  upon  which  I  was 
gazing. 

'This  will  never  do,'  said  I  to  myself;  and 
forthwith  turned  on  the  black.  'You  must 
remove  these  coverings/  I  said. 

He  looked  at  me  quickly,  salaamed,  and 
stamped  smartly  on  the  floor.  In  an  in- 
stant from  everywhere  about  the  room,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  issued  a  stream  of  women,  all 
veiled  and  mute,  who  approached  the  couch 
like  spectres.  As  my  eyes  went  round  the 
circle  they  lighted  upon  one  a  little  apart  from 
her  fellows,  whose  slender  body  and  gracious 
bearing  I  thought  I  recognised  for  those  of  my 
fair  guide  in  the  streets.  I  pointed  to  the 
couch. 

*  Let  me  see  the  face  of  your  mistress/  said  I. 

There  was  a  faint  murmur  from  the  bevy, 
but  I  repeated  my  request  with  authority. 

'  Would  you  have  the  Light  of  your  master's 
life  go  out?'  I  said.  'Remove  the  veil.  It  is 
I  that  hold  the  keys  of  her  life.  These  be  my 
orders.' 

At  that  one  came  stealthily  forward  and 
withdrew  the  heavy  veil  from  before  the  face 


AKBAR   ALTS   COURTYARD    167 

of  my  patient.  Instantly  a  melancholy  wail 
went  round  the  waititig  maidens.  I  stooped 
and  looked  into  two  shining  eyes,  black  and 
lustrous  as  a  night  of  stars.  The  face  was 
beautiful,  but  pallid,  and  the  jaw  was  tightly 
clenched ;  the  lashes  rose  stirless,  as  the  eyes 
stared  into  mine.  A  little  shiver  sprang  up 
at  the  shoulders,  and  I  traced  its  course  through 
the  drapery  downwards  along  the  contour  of 
her  body.  I  turned  to  the  group  of  girls,  some 
of  whom,  in  their  excitement,  had  discarded 
their  veils. 

'  What  is  this  sickness  of  your  mistress  ? '  I 
asked. 

Then  broke  out  at  once  a  soft  babble  of 
liquid  sounds,  as  one  and  all,  with  the  incoher- 
ence of  their  kind,  made  answer  together.  The 
multitude  of  those  silver  voices  rained  confusion 
upon  me,  and  with  an  impatient  gesture  I  bade 
them  begone.  They  vanished,  I  know  not  how, 
through  the  silken  hangings  about  the  walls, 
but  as  the  last  was  flitting  after  her  companions 
I  stopped  her.  She  turned  to  me.  The  face 
was  still  shrouded,  but  the  whole  aspect  of 
the  draped  figure  was  familiar.  I  felt  sure  this 
was  my  stranger  of  the  streets. 


i68   AKBAR   ALI'S   COURTYARD 

'Come,'  said  I,  'little  one,  tell  me  of  this 
sickness/ 

She  stood  near  by  the  couch  from  which 
those  prostrate  eyes  were  still  fixed  upon  me, 
and  her  soft  voice  rang  very  sweetly  in  my 
ears. 

'  Sir,'  said  she, '  I  am  a  maid  from  the  distant 
mountains,  and  have  little  knowledge.  But  the 
wife  of  my  lord,  my  mistress,  has  been  stricken 
sorely  these  many  weeks.  Day  by  day  she 
lies  upon  the  couch  as  you  now  see  her,  neither 
eating  nor  drinking,  only  staring  with  wide 
eyes.  Night  by  night  do  the  devils  take  her 
out  into  the  courtyard,  where  she  wanders  alone 
in  her  madness.  Nothing  avails  against  the 
evil.  Alas !  the  rose  of  the  garden  is  fading 
away.' 

She  wrung  her  hands  and  appeared  to  weep 
behind  her  veil ;  and,  shooting  an  accidental 
glance  at  the  pale  face  on  the  pillows,  I  caught 
a  gleam  of  the  white  teeth,  a  flash  of  the  black 
eyes,  and  (I  thought)  a  tiny  smile,  something 
mocking  and  malevolent.  I  bent  down  and 
examined  my  patient  carefully.  If  here  was 
madness  there  were  a  few  symptoms  patent 
now ;  if  here  was  an  somnambulist  or  a  cata- 


AKBAR  ALTS   COURTYARD    169 

leptic  she  showed  no  visible  sign  of  ailment. 
Indeed,  one  thing  was  plain  from  my  scrutiny, 
that  Akbar  Ali  must  look  deeper  for  the  mys- 
tery than  any  physical  ill ;  for  I  would  be  sworn 
that  I  recognised  every  appearance  of  impos- 
ture in  my  invalid.  The  body  was  warm  with 
generous  life,  the  pulse  as  full  as  that  of  a 
healthy  child,  and  the  breath  flowed  naturally, 
with  no  trace  of  discomfort ;  of  malady  there 
was  not  the  slightest  evidence.  The  girl 
covered  up  the  face,  and  I  left  the  chamber 
in  wonder.  I  think  I  was  relieved  to  find  that 
my  adventure  was  to  exact  more  of  me  than 
a  mere  professional  attendance.  When  I  sought 
Akbar's  presence  I  had  resolved  what  conduct 
to  adopt  in  this  case,  I  would  not  throw  it 
up  as  outside  my  skill ;  indeed,  I  was  already 
very  curious  and  anxious  at  all  hazards  to 
pursue  my  inquiry  to  any  end.  And  had  there 
been  any  doubt  in  my  mind  as  to  my  proper 
behaviour,  Akbar  himself  would  have  confirmed 
my  determination.  I  did  but  hint  the  illness 
was  trifling  and  might  not  require  my  services, 
when  he  sprang  into  a  passion  of  entreaty  that 
I  should  stay  and  relieve  it,  cried  that  his 
pearl  was  slipping  from  him ;  and,  when  I  still 


170  AKBAR   ALTS   COURTYARD 

seemed  to  hesitate,  conducted  himself  as  a  man 
frantic  with  gloomy  fears,  offering  me  the 
utmost  reward  I  should  name.  It  was  certain 
that  he  was  utterly  devoted  to  his  wife ;  certain, 
also,  that  he  had  been  thoroughly  frightened 
by  her  feint  of  insanity. 

'  Well,'  said  I,  as  though  with  reluctance, 
'  I  will  undertake  her  cure  upon  two  conditions 
— my  orders  must  be  obeyed,  and  I  must  be 
free  of  the  house.' 

He  accepted  the  terms  with  an  alacrity  from 
which  I  might  estimate  his  anxiety.  It  was  a 
very  barbarous  and  novel  experiment  to  place 
a  Giaour  in  practical  control  of  his  household, 
but  he  was  willing  to  go  any  length  in  the 
moment  of  his  terror. 

'Then,'  said  I,  'my  first  demand  is  a  room 
to  myself.  Give  me  a  chamber  to  which  I 
shall  have  access  day  and  night* 

He  summoned  the  black  and  gave  him  some 
instructions,  and  I  found  myself  at  once  in  the 
possession  of  a  comfortable  apartment  over- 
looking the  courtyard,  and  in  the  wing  of 
the  buildings  remote  from  the  quarters  of  the 
women. 

Next  day  I  visited  my  mock-patient  again, 


AKBAR   ALTS   COURTYARD    171 

and  was  the  more  convinced  of  her  imposture. 
She  was  as  well  as  I  was  myself,  and  far 
healthier  than  the  shaking  old  man,  her  lord 
and  master.  She  was,  beyond  question,  an 
exceedingly  handsome  woman,  young  and 
vigorous,  and  if  ever  I  saw  passion  in  any  eyes, 
it  was  in  hers  as  she  lay  supine  and  seemingly 
unconscious,  staring  up  into  my  face  with  great 
round  orbs,  impudent  and  unashamed.  I  could 
almost  think  that  she  enjoyed  the  novelty  of 
thus  confronting  the  Feringhi  with  her  naked 
face.  Her  maid — for  it  was  my  graceful  guide 
that  waited  upon  us — declared  she  took  no 
food ;  but  this  idea  was  preposterous,  and  I  was 
pretty  sure  she  had  an  excellent  appetite,  and 
ate  like  a  healthy  human  being.  I  had  no 
doubt  but  that  there  was  some  sort  of  con- 
spiracy among  her  women  to  hoodwink  the 
husband,  but  the  reason  for  it  I  had  yet  to 
discover.  My  resolution  to  solve  the  problem 
was  heightened  by  an  incident  that  befell  after 
I  had  left  the  room.  For  I  was  no  sooner  in 
the  courtyard  than  I  was  attracted  by  the  noise 
of  a  falling  stool,  and,  glancing  quickly  back, 
I  caught  one  glimpse  of  two  black  mocking  eyes 
as  they  vanished  from  the  window  behind  me. 


172   AKBAR   ALI'S   COURTYARD 

In  the  evening  I  visited  the  house  again,  and 
took  up  my  quarters  in  my  private  chamber. 
A  little  later  I  perceived  the  girl  from  the 
mountains  drawing  water  in  the  courtyard,  and 
I  strolled  out  and  met  her.  Her  veil  irritated 
me,  for  it  pleased  me  to  fancy  that  behind  its 
soft  meshes  was  hidden  a  face  as  beautiful  as 
her  gait  and  figure.  One  may  fall  in  love  with 
well-nigh  any  attribute  of  a  woman,  provided 
the  others  make  no  interference,  and  I  have 
often  been  charmed  by  some  miracle  of  moving 
grace,  until  a  sudden  turn  of  the  head  has 
thrown  the  features  into  view,  and  the  picture 
has  fallen  into  ill  proportions.  But  of  Zuleika 
(for  such  I  found  was  her  name),  who  kept 
her  plainness  or  her  beauty  private,  I  had  no 
thoughts  but  were  pleasant  and  romantic.  Her 
eyes,  which  were  deep  brown,  peeped  over  the 
silk  at  me,  but  gave  no  clue  to  the  rest  of  her 
features.  She  was  from  a  remote  part  of  the 
country,  and  came  of  a  house  of  chieftains ; 
but,  having  fallen  into  the  hands  of  brigands 
in  some  raid  upon  her  father's  village,  had 
passed  into  slavery,  an  orphan  of  very  tender 
years.  She  had  subsequently  been  purchased 
by  Akbar  to  gratify  Sulima — my  patient,  as  it 


AKBAR  ALTS   COURTYARD    173 

appeared — whose  caprice  it  was  to  have  about 
her  person  one  of  noble  birth.  She  was  com- 
municative enough  about  her  own  fortunes,  which 
she  related  in  her  sweet,  soft  voice ;  but  when 
I  questioned  her  as  to  her  mistress  she  was  at 
once  overtaken  by  agitation  and  embarrass- 
ment. If  she  did  not  actually  know  Sulima's 
secret  (which  I  suspected),  she  had  clearly  an 
inkling  of  it,  but  with  the  fidelity  of  her  calling 
she  kept  her  suspicions  to  herself,  repeating  her 
original  tale  of  lamentable  illness.  And  that — 
in  its  superficial  facts  at  least — the  story  was 
true  I  had  proof  that  night  Somewhere  about 
nine  o'clock,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  great  silence, 
there  sprang  up  a  loud  wailing  in  the  court- 
yard. Hurrying  out,  I  saw,  under  the  light  of 
the  rising  moon,  the  figure  of  a  woman  march- 
ing round  the  square  and  beating  her  breasts 
with  her  hands.  Scattered  about  at  a  little 
distance  stood  a  number  of  other  figures,  that 
wept  and  wrung  their  hands,  and  called  upon 
Allah  to  rid  their  mistress,  the  Queen  of 
Beauty,  of  this  sevenfold  devil  that  was  robbing 
her  of  sense  and  life.  As  I  watched  her 
curiously  from  the  doorway  I  felt  a  grip  upon 
my  arm,  and  the  stricken  face  of  old  Akbar 


174   AKBAR   ALI'S    COURTYARD 

appeared  at  my  shoulder.  He  was  trembling 
with  alarm. 

*  Do  you  see  ? '  he  cried  excitedly,  *  the 
devils  are  killing  her.  My  pearl,  my  pearl ! 
Mahmoud,  deliver  us !  Sir,  this  is  what,  under 
Allah's  mercy,  you  shall  cure.  Ten  thousand  for- 
tunes shall  be  yours  if  you  will  lay  these  devils.' 

I  gave  him  some  words  of  comfort  and  dis- 
missed him  to  his  room. 

'  I  will  give  myself  a  week,'  I  said, '  in  which 
to  destroy  the  devils.  If  at  the  end  of  that 
time  she  has  still  the  malady,  you  may  rank 
me  as  a  common  charlatan.' 

He  was  quieted  by  my  confidence,  and 
tottered  off  muttering  prayers  and  curses  in 
alternation. 

Soon  the  wailing  died  away,  and  the  figure 
sank  upon  the  stones  of  the  courtyard,  which 
seemed  a  signal  for  the  disappearance  of  the 
maidens.  They  vanished  simultaneously,  and 
Sulima,  her  head  bowed  upon  the  flags,  alone 
remained  under  the  moon.  Presently  she  rose, 
and  walking  vacantly,  melted  into  the  darkness 
of  the  women's  wing.  I  hastened  across  the 
courtyard,  but  she  was  already  gone ;  and 
silence  once  more  pervaded  the  house. 


AKBAR   ALTS   COURTYARD    175 

*  Here,'  I  thought,  '  begins  the  mystery,  and 
this  must  be  my  point  of  departure  for  its 
solution.' 

The  next  day  was  appallingly  hot ;  the  sun 
struck  into  the  white  courtyard  with  the  glare 
of  a  tiger,  and  the  house  of  Akbar  Ali  was 
wrapt  in  slumber.  No  one  ventured  out,  and 
after  a  perfunctory  visit  to  Sulima  I  myself 
yielded  to  the  languor  of  the  air  and  took  a 
noontide  siesta.  But  later  in  the  afternoon  I 
threw  off  my  lethargy  and  went  out  into  the 
open.  It  seemed  to  me  that  now,  if  ever,  was 
my  chance  of  exploration ;  when  no  one  was 
about  to  interfere  with  me,  or  to  spy  upon  my 
actions.  I  entered  the  quarters  of  the  women, 
and  wandered  through  the  rooms  unchallenged. 
Now  and  then  a  prostrate  figure  upon  a  couch 
met  my  eye,  but  the  place  was  singularly  dead, 
and  my  slippered  feet  made  no  noise  sufficient 
to  arouse  the  dreamers.  In  my  round  I  made 
but  one  discovery,  and  for  that  I  forgave  Sulima 
all  my  tedious  hours  of  waiting.  In  one  of  the 
chambers  I  came  upon  the  sleeping  form  of 
Zuleika,  and  she  was  unveiled.  At  the  first 
sight  of  her  face  I  fell  back  astonished,  and 
then  made  an  eager  movement  as  though  at 


176   AKBAR   ALTS   COURTYARD 

once  to  take  possession  of  it.  I  think  it  was 
the  loveliest  God  has  ever  designed  for  poor 
humanity  ;  certainly  it  outstripped  the  creations 
of  my  nimble  imagination  as  much  as  those 
had  hitherto  surpassed  my  experience.  I  had 
never  dreamed  of  such  a  face,  so  perfectly 
fashioned,  so  exquisitely  coloured,  so  soft  and 
radiant  with  beauty.  In  an  instant  it  shot 
home  into  my  heart,  and  I  have  the  picture  of 
that  prostrate  loveliness  to-day  as  clear  as  the 
reality  of  that  enchanted  moment.  Passion 
broke  boisterously  into  my  soul,  and  my  blood 
went  leaping  through  my  body  as  though  I 
had  suddenly  been  transfigured  by  some  divine 
glory ;  the  exhilaration  of  the  feeling  was  like 
nothing  else  on  earth.  I  was  drawn  down  to 
that  recumbent  face  with  an  attraction  well- 
nigh  irresistible.  I  thank  Heaven  I  stopped 
short  of  the  sacrilege  in  my  thoughts.  Instead, 
I  wrenched  myself  away  and  remained  gazing 
upon  her  from  a  distance ;  and  then,  with  a 
quick  inspiration,  tearing  the  golden  ring  from 
my  finger,  I  stealthily  slipped  it  upon  her  left 
hand.  It  was  an  impudent  action,  but  I  declare 
I  had  no  thought  of  liberty,  much  less  of  insult. 
It  was  almost  with  childish  glee  that  I  noted 


AKBAR   ALTS   COURTYARD    177 

the  effect  of  the  transference,  and  then,  fearing 
lest  better  counsel  should  prevail  over  my  im- 
pulse, I  fled  precipitately  from  the  room. 

That  evening  SuHma  went  through  her  per- 
formance in  the  courtyard  as  before,  and,  as 
before,  retired  into  the  blackness  of  the  passages 
beyond.  This  time  I  was  upon  the  alert,  and 
followed  almost  at  her  heels  ;  but,  in  spite  of 
my  precautions,  I  lost  her  somewhere  in  those 
intricate  and  gloomy  mazes.  She  vanished 
soundlessly,  and  I  was  left  to  grope  my  way  as 
best  I  might  back  through  the  ill-lit  rooms  into 
the  freer  air  of  the  night.  I  was  chagrined  at 
my  failure,  and  saw  plainly  that  I  must  take  a 
more  heroic  way  with  my  impostor. 

All  the  next  day  I  saw  no  sign  of  Zuleika ; 
hour  after  hour  I  sat  watching  the  courtyard 
from  my  couch ;  but  she  did  not  appear,  and 
when,  restless  and  ill  at  ease  (for  it  was  come  to 
that),  I  paid  two  visits  to  Sulima  in  the  hope 
of  finding  her,  my  mission  was  still  fruitless — 
another  maid  attended  on  her  mistress.  By  the 
evening  I  gave  up  in  despair,  and  turned  my 
thoughts  sadly  upon  the  construction  of  a  plot 
to  track  the  mock-invalid. 

As  was  his  custom,  the  black  brought  me 
M 


178   AKBAR   ALI'S   COURTYARD 

some  coffee  at  the  fall  of  night,  set  it  upon  the 
inlaid  stool  by  my  couch,  and  retired  with  a 
salaam.  For  some  time  I  smoked  in  peace, 
revolving  my  plan.  The  lamp  had  remained 
unlit,  and  the  room  was  now  tolerably  obscure, 
but  the  stool  rose  out  of  the  gloom,  a  dim  lump 
of  whiteness.  As  I  meditated  I  must  have 
closed  my  eyes,  and  fallen  drowsy,  for  suddenly 
I  was  startled  by  a  soft  sound  as  of  breathing 
at  my  elbow,  and  this  was  followed  immediately 
by  a  slight  crash.  I  was  up  in  a  moment,  and 
as  I  rose  a  white-clad  figure  melted  softly  into 
the  mysteries  about  the  doorway.  The  chamber 
was  profoundly  silent  I  got  off  my  couch,  lit 
my  lamp,  and  found  my  cup  upset,  and  my 
coffee  spilt  to  the  dregs.  To  this  I  paid  little 
heed,  for  my  glance  passed  at  once  from  the 
disaster  to  a  ring  that  lay  beside  the  sprawling 
cup  upon  the  stool.  It  was  that  which  I  had 
so  audaciously  bestowed  upon  Zuleika's  finger. 
A  pang  shot  through  me,  for  I  perceived  that 
my  gift  had  been  rejected,  my  overtures  had 
been  denied,  and  my  hopes  were  broken.  By 
this  return  I  was  taught  a  lesson  in  manners ; 
she  had  put  me  in  my  proper  place  ;  her  loveli- 
ness was  not  for  me,  and  I  must  know  it  from 


AKBAR   ALI'S   COURTYARD    179 

the  outset.  These  dismal  reflections  occupied 
me  for  some  while,  and  the  picture  of  Zuleika, 
as  I  had  seen  her  in  her  sleep,  stabbed  me  as  it 
had  been  a  knife.  A  sort  of  vague  bitterness 
seized  upon  me.  The  East  would  have  nothing 
to  do  with  the  West. 

*  At  least,'  I  said,  with  a  moody  attempt  at 
nonchalance, '  at  least  I  'm  not  to  be  cheated  of 
my  coffee ' ;  and  forthwith  I  clapped  my  hands 
for  the  black. 

He  entered,  and  at  sight  of  me  I  thought  he 
started.  I  pointed  to  the  overturned  cup,  from 
which  the  liquid  was  dripping  to  the  floor. 
Instantly  he  had  a  fit  of  trembling,  and  fell 
upon  his  knees,  praying  for  his  life  and  pro- 
testing his  innocence.  It  was  his  order,  he 
explained  with  chattering  teeth.  For  a  moment 
I  was  puzzled  at  the  exhibition  of  genuine 
terror,  and  then,  enlightened  by  a  quick  sus- 
picion, I  stooped  and  examined  the  dregs  of 
the  coffee.  The  lees  were  shot  with  horrid 
green  streaks.  Whether  it  had  been  poisoned 
or  merely  drugged,  I  never  knew,  but  at 
once  I  understood  the  significance  of  the 
design. 

*  This  is  your  mistress's  work  ! '  I  said  sternly. 


i8o   AKBAR   ALTS   COURTYARD 

'  Dog,   I  will  have  you  sliced   in   pieces  and 
dropped  into  the  bay  for  sharks  to  eat ! ' 

He  still  asserted  his  innocence  with  manifest 
alarm. 

*  You  shall  learn,'  I  continued, '  that  I  am  not 
to  be  trifled  with.     Bring  me  another  cup.* 

He  obeyed  with  alacrity,  and  on  his  return  I 
took  it  from  his  hands. 

*  Drink,'  I  said  ;  *  drink,  dog  from  the  deserts, 
or  I  will  force  it  down  your  throat' 

He  sipped  the  coffee  without  hesitation,  and, 
a  look  in  his  face  convincing  me,  I  snatched  it 
from  him  and  drained  it  at  a  draught. 

*  And  now,'  I  continued,  *  you  shall  await  my 
return  in  security,  monkeyface.* 

He  eyed  me  fearfully  as  I  bound  his  hands 
with  my  handkerchief,  but  was  in  too  great  a 
state  of  trepidation  to  resist  Taking  a  curved 
dagger  from  the  wall,  I  passed  out  and  secured 
the  door  behind  me.  I  was  now  on  the  eve  of 
my  adventure.  On  this  night  it  was  clear  that 
Sulima  was  to  undertake  whatever  enterprise 
she  had  in  her  mind,  and  (as  she  imagined)  she 
would  be  free  of  the  Giaour's  eyes.  I  waited 
on  the  threshold  of  the  corridor  that  com- 
municated with  the  courtyard. 


AKBAR  ALTS   COURTYARD    i8i 

It  was  not  long  ere  I  perceived  her  issue  from 
her  room  into  the  square.  She  went  through 
her  counterfeit  of  madness  with  her  customary 
skill,  but  as  it  was  not  played  for  my  benefit, 
the  act  was  briefer  than  usual.  Then  she  made 
off  towards  the  lower  part  of  the  yard,  and  I 
followed  stealthily  in  the  shadows.  Having  no 
fear  of  pursuit,  she  went  leisurely  enough,  and 
I  found  no  difficulty  in  keeping  her  in  sight. 
We  entered  a  dark  doorway,  traversed  a  suc- 
cession of  passages  noiselessly,  and  presently 
came  into  a  small  room,  barely  lighted,  in  the 
centre  of  which  she  halted  and  stooped  to  the 
floor.  I  shrank  into  the  hangings  about  the 
entrance  and  watched  her.  She  put  her  face 
well-nigh  to  the  stone,  and  murmured  softly — 

*  Little  slave,'  she  said, '  open  !  It  is  the  Star 
of  Evening.' 

At  the  words  a  thin  rumble  fell  on  my  ear, 
a  slab  of  stone  slid  gently  back,  and  a  gap 
yawned  slowly  in  the  floor.  Into  this  Sulima 
descended,  and  as  her  head  sank  below  the  level 
of  the  hole,  the  stone  leisurely  stole  out  of  its 
socket  and  crept  over  the  aperture.  It  was  the 
crisis  of  my  adventure.  Should  that  lid  close 
upon  the  crevice,  I  was  shut  off  for  ever  from 


i82   AKBAR   ALI'S   COURTYARD 

my  quarry,  and  must  needs  retreat  impotently  to 
my  bed.  I  took  the  decision  in  a  moment,  and 
stepping  lightly  forward  thrust  the  tip  of  my 
dagger  into  the  vanishing  slit.  The  stone  met 
the  steel  and  rested,  and  to  my  joy  there  was 
no  click  of  a  latch.  Thus  I  stood  impatiently 
for  some  minutes,  in  fear  lest  my  action  had 
been  detected  ;  but  as  nothing  happened  I  bent 
low,  and,  inserting  my  fingers  in  the  crack, 
pulled  at  the  lid  with  all  my  strength.  Gradu- 
ally it  yielded,  and,  sliding  with  a  soft,  grating 
sound,  disclosed  a  square  black  patch  of  space. 
After  a  momentary  hesitation  I  dropped  my 
feet  into  this  and  hit  upon  a  ledge,  which 
proved  to  be  the  topmost  step  in  a  stone  stair- 
way. I  descended  quietly,  and  at  the  bottom 
of  the  flight  found  myself  in  a  passage  of 
some  sort.  Along  this  I  felt  my  way  until 
at  length  I  burst  out  into  a  lighted  corridor, 
supported  on  either  side  by  pillars.  When  I 
had  reached  the  end  of  this,  I  stumbled  upon 
another  staircase  which  curved  upwards  and 
finished  before  a  heavy  curtain.  And  here, 
cautiously  peering  through  a  chink,  I  perceived 
that  I  was  on  the  threshold  of  a  large  chamber. 
It  was  quite  bare  and  untenanted,  and  at  the 


AKBAR   ALI'S   COURTYARD    183 

further  side  another  curtained  doorway  gave 
entrance  to  a  small  and  very  dark  antechamber. 
When  I  had  got  so  far  I  could  hear  from  some- 
where in  the  darkness  the  sound  of  murmuring 
voices,  and  towards  these  I  groped  my  way.  I 
now  discovered  that  the  antechamber  was  but 
an  alcove  to  a  more  spacious  room  from  which 
it  was  shut  off  by  a  mass  of  silken  hangings. 
Through  these  I  peeped,  and  my  eyes  alighted 
on  Sulima. 

The  secret  was  out  at  last.  The  room  before 
me  was  daintily  furnished,  after  a  sensuous 
Oriental  fashion,  and  upon  one  of  the  couches 
in  the  centre  sat  my  patient,  clinging  about  her 
lover's  neck.  He  was  a  young  man,  tall  and 
dark,  and,  to  judge  by  his  face,  of  fierce  emo- 
tions. This  was  striking  enough,  and  even 
handsome  after  a  barbaric  pattern.  A  jewelled 
sword  hung  by  his  side,  and  he  seemed  from 
his  dress  and  his  bearing  to  be  a  soldier — indeed, 
one  of  high  authority  at  the  Court,  I  guessed. 
He  caressed  her  with  many  endearments,  and  I 
think  I  never  saw  a  greater  abandonment  to 
passion  marked  upon  any  woman's  face.  She 
was  whispering  softly  in  his  ear,  but  not  so  softly 
that  I  could  not  catch  something  of  her  speech. 


i84   AKBAR   ALTS   COURTYARD 

*  They  set  a  watch  upon  me,  beloved,'  she 
murmured,  *  but  I  was  strong  in  my  love ;  I 
was  not  to  be  chained.  The  Evening  Star 
shall  rise  whatever  be  their  poor  tricks.  O  my 
beloved,  I  love  thee ! ' 

Her  cooing  grew  too  inarticulate  for  my  ears, 
and  presently  she  broke  into  a  melodious  laugh. 

'  I  have  cheated  them,  heart  of  me.  The 
fool,  my  husband,  is  distraught  with  terrors  for 
my  health.  He  thinks  me  mad,  and  mad  I  am 
for  love  of  thee.  He  set  the  Giaour  to  heal 
me ;  but  the  Giaour  was  wise  and  frowned 
upon  me ;  and  another  moth  is  shrivelled  and 
gone.  Such  and  such  is  the  fate  of  those  that 
would  cross  me  and  my  beloved  ! ' 

As  I  stood  listening,  I  know  not  through 
what  clumsiness  of  movement,  my  dagger 
dropped  from  my  hand  and  clattered  on  the 
stone  floor.  The  man  seized  his  sword  and 
jumped  to  his  feet,  and  Sulima,  with  a  cry  of 
alarm,  clung  to  his  arm.  And  then,  in  recovering 
my  weapon,  I  must  needs  tread  awkwardly  upon 
the  curtain,  and,  tripping  myself,  fall  heavily  to 
my  knees.  Instantly  the  man  ran  forward  with 
his  raised  weapon,  while  Sulima,  terror  in  her 
eyes,  burst  through  the  hangings  with  a  shriek. 


AKBAR   ALTS   COURtYARD    185 

and,  rushing  across  the  antechamber,  fled  out 
of  sight.  I  had  scarce  time  to  notice  this  out 
of  the  tail  of  my  eye  when  my  enemy  was 
upon  me.  I  stepped  back  into  the  darkness,  and 
saw  him  break  through  the  curtain.  I  heard 
his  sword  singing  as  he  swept  it  blindly  about 
him,  and  then  a  clamp  of  feet  made  for  me.  I 
cannot  tell  by  what  miracle  his  weapon  missed 
me  ;  it  is  possible  he  had  no  notion  of  my 
position,  and  was  merely  coming  at  a  venture  ; 
for  the  curtains  had  fallen  to,  and  the  alcove 
was  pitch  dark.  Even  so  it  is  a  mystery  that  I 
should  have  escaped  the  circles  of  his  sword. 
But  the  bare  fact  is  that  as  I  instinctively  held 
my  dagger  at  arm's-length  before  me,  by  way 
of  protection,  he  ran  upon  it.  I  had  a  sudden 
shock  as  his  body  struck  the  point,  and  then 
felt  something  give  ;  a  slight  groan  followed, 
the  weapon  was  jerked  from  my  hand,  and  there 
was  the  dull  sound  of  a  falling  body.  The 
affair  was  over  in  a  moment,  and  with  little 
noise ;  and  I  stood  by  the  side  of  the  dead 
man,  bewildered  and  unnerved.  I  must  have 
remained  thus  for  some  minutes,  for  I  was 
aroused  from  my  stupefaction  by  a  whisper  out 
of  the  surrounding  quiet 


i86   AKBAR   ALTS   COURTYARD 

*  You  must  go  at  once,'  it  said.  '  Mustapha 
is  awaking  from  his  sleep.  What  is  this  you 
have  done  ?  Oh !  you  will  be  slain  !  you  will 
be  slain  ! ' 

The  voice  trembled  with  tears,  and  though 
I  could  make  out  nothing  in  the  darkness,  I 
recognised  it  in  an  instant  for  Zuleika's.  I  put 
out  my  hands,  and,  happening  upon  her,  drew 
her  into  the  lighted  room  beyond. 

'  How  did  you  come  here  ? '  I  asked.  '  What 
is  this  place  ? ' 

Her  lovely  face,  frightened  and  wonderstruck 
as  it  was,  dropped  suddenly  upon  her  bosom. 

'  What  is  this  place  ? '  I  repeated.  She  raised 
her  head  quickly  and  looked  at  me  tearfully ;  she 
put  an  arm  towards  me  in  the  utmost  agitation. 

'  You  must  go,'  she  cried  ;  '  you  will  be  killed, 

and  I .'     She  put  her  hands  to  her  face  and 

wept. 

A  strong  emotion  surged  through  me.  I 
took  her  hand  again. 

'I  will  not  go,'  I  said,  'until  you  have  answered 
my  questions.     Why  are  you  here  ? ' 

'  I  came,'  she  whispered,  '  to  warn  you.  I 
watched  you  enter  the  pit ;  I  followed  you.  I 
have  been  at  your  heels  all  the  way.' 


AKBAR   ALTS   COURTYARD    187 

I  was  illumined  by  a  flash  of  intelligence. 

*  And  the  coffee,'  I  asked  breathlessly,  *  what 
of  that?' 

She  made  no  answer. 

'  It  was  you  saved  me,  then,'  I  continued. 
*  You  knew.  Alas !  dear  one,  why  did  you 
return  me  the  ring  ?  Of  what  use  is  my  life 
without  you  ?    My  beloved,  why  are  you  here  ? ' 

I  drew  her  towards  me ;  she  looked  up  with 
her  wide  and  shining  eyes. 

'  Give  it  me  back,'  she  murmured.  *  I  left  it 
for  a  sign.     Give  it  back  to  me.' 

In  an  ecstasy  at  her  unexpected  words  I 
slipped  it  off  my  finger  upon  hers,  and  put  my 
arms  about  her.  She  clung  close,  and  I  kissed 
her  from  my  soul.  Upon  the  very  spot  which 
a  few  moments  before  had  been  the  scene  of  the 
illicit  passions  of  Sulima  and  the  hapless  dead, 
there  we  exchanged  the  mutual  ardours  of  our 
pure  affection. 

'  My  beloved,'  I  said,  *  light  of  my  life,  my 
pearl,  I  love  you  !  * 

Zuleika  sighed,  and  then  hastily  withdrew 
herself  from  me. 

'  But  you  must  go,'  she  cried  ;  *  my  heart  beats 
a  warning.     I  hear  the  voice  of  my  own  heart 


i88    AKBAR   ALTS   COURTYARD 

talking.  O  my  beloved,  and  my  lord,  you 
must  fly !  Mustapha  is  at  the  door,  and,  behold, 
the  sleep  is  lifting  from  his  eyelids.     Come.' 

I  followed  her  to  the  doorway  of  the  big 
chamber  that  led  upon  the  stairway. 

*  Hush  ! '  she  whispered,  pointing  with  her 
finger ;  and  there,  upon  the  very  margin  of  the 
room,  squat  against  the  curtain  that  defended 
the  stairway,  I  perceived  what  seemed  to  me  at 
the  first  glance  a  monstrous  toad. 

'  It  is  Mustapha,'  she  explained, '  step  lightly.' 
And,  sure  enough,  when  we  reached  the  object, 
which  was  rolling  uneasily  in  its  slumber,  and 
breathing  stertorously,  my  eyes  fell  on  the  most 
horrid  and  grotesque  black  dwarf  that  may  be 
conceived.  It  lay  in  a  misshapen  lump,  like 
nothing  earthly,  and  its  hideous  appearance, 
together  with  the  ugly  noises  it  was  making, 
made  me  shudder  and  shrink  as  from  a  species 
of  devil.  As  we  passed,  its  heavy-lidded  eyes, 
sodden  with  opium  or  hasheesh,  fell  open  and 
stared  at  us  without  intelligence.  Once  in 
the  corridor,  I  breathed  without  alarm,  and  we 
began  to  move  between  the  pillars  by  the  aid 
of  the  dim  light.  I  now  saw  that  the  place  we 
were  traversing  extended  much  further   upon 


AKBAR   ALI'S   COURTYARD    189 

either  side  than  I  had  previously  imagined. 
Indeed,  it  seemed  to  be  a  vault  of  considerable 
dimensions,  and  the  columns  that  supported 
it  ran  off  into  the  darkness  of  the  remoter 
parts,  from  which  they  peeped  like  a  row  of 
stationary  ghosts. 

When  we  had  got  about  halfway  along  this 
Zuleika  halted,  and  put  her  hand  out  to  detain 
me. 

'  There  is  something  beyond,'  she  whispered. 
'  Rest,  beloved,  and  I  will  go  forward.' 

I  protested  against  this  rashness,  but  she 
enjoined  upon  me  silence,  murmuring, '  I  have 
no  fears.  I  am  safe,  jewel  of  my  eyes.  Here  I 
have  freedom  to  come  and  go.' 

She  left  me,  fading  imperceptibly  from  my 
eyes,  and  I  waited,  a  prey  to  anxiety.  The 
sound  of  a  low  voice  reached  me  from  the 
distance,  a  tiny  cry  followed ;  and  in  high 
agitation  I  ran  forward,  fearing  for  her  safety. 
But  at  that  moment  a  form  glided  into  view, 
and  I  stepped  swiftly  to  it.     I  seized  her  hand. 

'Zuleika,'  I  said. 

Instantly  the  figure  started  back,  trembling 
under  my  touch ;  and,  looking  closer,  I  saw 
that  I  had  hold  of  Sulima.     She  winced  from 


IQO   AKBAR   ALTS   COURTYARD 

me  as  from  a  spirit ;  evidently  she  had  thought 
me  drugged  or  dead  long  since. 

'The  game  is  played  out,  my  pretty  mad- 
woman,' I  said  sternly.  '  Pray  allow  me  to 
conduct  you  to  your  husband's  house.' 

She  stared  at  me,  and  at  last  spoke. 

*So  you  have  tracked  me  then,  spy  of  a 
Giaour,'  she  said  scornfully.  *  It  is  a  generous 
trade,  this  of  yours.  And  now  fly  to  your 
master  and  obtain  your  reward.' 

I  tightened  my  grasp  upon  her. 

*  I  at  least  have  not  deceived  a  fond  old 
husband,'  I  answered.  *Go  you,  and  Allah 
pardon  you,  for  this  is  the  end  of  your  trickery.' 

She  examined  me  attentively  for  a  few 
seconds. 

'  You  will  tell  him  all  ? '  she  said.  '  There  is 
the  sack  and  the  bay  for  me,'  and  she  laughed 
bitterly  ;  but  in  a  moment  changed  her  tone, 
and,  clasping  my  arm,  fell  into  the  most  piteous 
entreaties.  *  Let  me  go,'  she  pleaded,  '  O 
Giaour,  let  me  go.  Hadst  thou  never  a  lover  ? 
Dost  thou  know  what  passion  may  be  ?  Thou 
wouldst  tie  me  to  this  silly  dotard,  with  a  brave 
and  noble  lover  waiting  at  my  gate?  And 
thou  thyself  hast  felt  the  pangs  of  love !     Ah ! 


AKBAR  ALI'S   COURTYARD    191 

let  me  go!  Return  to  thy  country;  turn  thy 
feet  free  of  this  city,  and  leave  him  to  his 
illusions  and  me  to  my  happiness.' 

*  I  have  no  intention  of  betraying  you,'  I 
replied.  '  That  is  for  the  spy,  with  whom  you 
have  compared  me.    But  this  sham  is  at  an  end.' 

She  looked  at  me  craftily. 

*  I  swear  it,'  she  said  ;  '  it  is  at  an  end  if  you 
will  keep  my  secret  O  wise  and  faithful !  I 
swear  by  our  Prophet  it  shall  end.' 

I  said  nothing,  for  suddenly  I  remembered 
that  she  was  in  ignorance  of  the  tragic  conclusion 
of  her  intrigue,  and  that  what  she  protested  she 
would  accomplish  was  already  taken  from  her 
hands  by  the  act  of  death. 

'  Come,  then,'  I  said  ;  '  let  us  leave  this  place.' 

She  obeyed  me,  and  together  we  completed 
the  remainder  of  the  journey,  and  remounted 
the  stairs  to  the  lid  of  the  pit.  It  was  at  this 
point  that  my  thoughts  flew  to  Zuleika.  Where 
had  she  gone?  Whither  had  she  fled?  Re- 
calling the  voices  I  had  heard  in  the  corridor,  I 
turned  to  my  companion. 

'Where  is  Zuleika?'  I  asked  abruptly.  She 
gazed  at  me  curiously,  and  then  a  smile  danced 
in  her  eyes. 


192    AKBAR   ALTS   COURTYARD 

*Ah!'  she  said,  'you  have,  then,  a  heart. 
You  will  pity  me ;  you  will  not  condemn.  It 
is  to  this  I  owe  my  pardon.  O  Giaour!  I 
thank  you.' 

And,  with  a  gleam  of  her  liquid  eyes,  she 
was  gone. 

In  the  morning  I  had  an  interview  with 
Akbar,  who  received  me  eagerly. 

'  Akbar  AH,'  I  said, '  last  night  did  I  accom- 
plish the  cure  your  heart  desires.  And  look, 
here  is  the  course  this  disease  will  run.  This 
day  once  more  will  she  lie  prostrate  among  her 
weeping  maidens ;  this  night  for  the  last  time 
the  devils  will  seize  her  in  the  courtyard.  But 
they  will  then  leave  her.  Two  days  she  will  shut 
herself  up,  refusing  food,  and  lamenting  with  a 
great  sorrow,  till  the  weakness  be  past.  But  on 
the  third  day  she  will  rise  and  go  about  the 
house  as  was  her  wont  before  the  malady  took 
her.     And  thus  you  shall  be  free  of  your  fears.' 

The  man  was  quite  overcome  with  this 
prospect,  and  displayed  his  joy  in  a  way  quite 
unprecedented  in  my  Oriental  experience.  He 
shook  my  hand  in  both  his  own,  and  declared 
he  was  under  the  deepest  debt  of  gratitude, 
called  down   the  blessings  of  Allah   and   his 


AKBAR   ALI'S   COURTYARD    193 

Prophet  on  my  head,  vowed  he  would  intercede 
for  me  in  Paradise,  and  wound  up  by  offering  me 
as  much  of  his  treasure  as  I  should  ask  in 
payment  for  my  services.  I  bade  him  keep 
calm,  and  part  with  nothing  till  my  predictions 
should  be  fulfilled ;  and  then,  promising  to 
return  on  the  third  day,  left  him,  and  set  forth 
for  my  inn.  I  had  hoped  to  see  Zuleika  before 
I  went,  but  the  disappointment  fed  the  pleasures 
of  anticipation.  I  should  be  three  days  without 
sight  or  touch  of  her,  and  for  this  denial  the 
coming  reunion  would  be  all  the  sweeter.  I 
had  made  up  my  mind  long  since  what  reward 
I  would  exact  of  the  merchant,  and  during  my 
voluntary  absence  from  the  house  the  thought 
of  it  kept  me  in  the  blithest  temper.  When  I 
arrived  on  the  appointed  day  Akbar  AH  gave 
me  an  effusive  welcome.  My  prophecy  had 
come  true,  he  said ;  Sulima  was  about  her 
quarters,  as  of  old  ;  but  she  was  in  poor  spirits, 
and  had  been  very  melancholy  ;  her  maids  said 
she  would  weep  bitterly  in  the  night.  I  ex- 
plained that  this  would  pass,  and  she  would  return 
to  him  again  ;  and  Akbar,  nothing  doubting, 
drew  me  into  the  women's  wing,  and  bade  me 
peep  through  the  curtains  and  behold  my  cure. 
N 


194   AKBAR   ALTS   COURTYARD 

Sulima  was  sitting  on  her  couch,  her  elbows 
on  a  little  ivory  table,  gazing  before  her  at  the 
window.  She  turned  at  the  sound  of  her 
husband's  whisper,  and  looked  towards  the 
doorway.  I  think  I  have  never  seen  a  face  so 
stricken  with  sorrow,  so  marked  and  delineated 
by  utter  grief.  But  the  next  second,  as  her 
eyes  caught  mine,  the  whole  aspect  changed  ;  a 
flash  lit  up  her  sad  eyes,  and  every  feature  was 
transfigured  with  a  malignant  passion  of  cruelty 
and  hate.  I  had  no  need  to  wonder  if  she 
knew. 

I  put  my  demands  before  the  merchant  with- 
out delay. 

*  I  ask  one  little  thing,'  I  said,  *  and  you  have 
sworn  by  your  Prophet  that  you  will  give 
me  my  price.  Neither  gold  nor  jewels  do  I 
want,  but  one  thing  only.  Give  me  Zuleika,  the 
little  mountain  maiden  that  waits  upon  your 
wife.' 

He  smiled  all  over  his  yellow  face,  and  was 
disposed  in  his  good  temper  to  be  even  facetious. 
He  stroked  his  beard  and  chuckled. 

'Allah  be  my  witness,'  he  answered.  'Yes, 
you  shall  have  her.  For,  O  Giaour!  there  is 
but  one  way  with  Giaour  or  Believer,  and  that 


AKBAR   ALTS   COURTYARD    195 

is  a  worthy  way.     You  have  given  me  back  my 
wife.     It  is  meet  I  should  give  you  yours.' 

He  clapped  his  hands,  still  chuckling,  and 
the  black  obeyed  his  summons. 

*  Bring  me,'  said  he,  '  the  slave-girl,  Zuleika.' 
The  black  hesitated.  '  Quick,'  he  cried,  *  or  by 
the  beard  of  the  Prophet ' 

The  black  salaamed  low. 

*  Lord  of  our  lives,'  he  answered, '  the  girl  is 
not  here.' 

I  sprang  to  my  feet,  and  the  stool  crashed 
upon  the  mosaic.     The  merchant  lifted  his  hand. 

'  My  son,'  he  said,  *  be  still.'  And  then  to 
the  black :  *  Thief  of  a  slave  and  dog  of  an 
alien  pack,  what  is  this  story  you  bring  me  ? ' 

The  black  bowed  deeper. 

'  It  is  true,  O  Presence ! '  he  muttered.  '  The 
girl  is  gone.  There  is  no  trace  of  her  within 
the  gates  of  this  house.  She  vanished  two 
days  ago.' 

I  stared  at  him,  horrorstruck ;  my  body 
trembled  from  head  to  foot  For  at  that  instant 
I  saw,  not  the  impassive  face  of  the  black,  nor 
Akbar's  wrathful  countenance,  but  the  fierce 
flash  of  malignant  hatred  lighting  up  the  eyes 
of  Sulima. 


THE    LAST   OF    BLACKBEARD 

The  sunlight  streamed  through  the  blue-gums 
on  the  slant,  and  lay  in  waving  patches  upon 
the  carpet.  The  passion-flowers  that  mantled 
the  verandah  nodded  in  the  little  airs  of  even- 
tide, and  the  many  scents  of  the  bush  suffused 
the  room.  Frere  eased  his  holland  coat  upon 
his  shoulders,  and  threw  a  glance  out  of  the 
open  windows  on  the  west. 

*  Mutton,'  said  he,  '  is  preposterous  to-night, 
my  dear.' 

*  I  gave  you  your  choice,'  returned  his  wife 
playfully.  '  Beef  or  mutton  or  pork — our  three 
staples,  Mr.  Gray,'  she  added,  turning  to  the 
young  man  on  her  left. 

The  cadet  laughed. 

'  Cold  roastbeef  and  salad,'  he  muttered. 

'You're  not  in  Paris,  my  boy,'  said  the 
squatter.  '  Mayonnaise  and  such  things  belong 
to  a  different  world  than  ours.  There 's  plenty 
of  food,  but  little  variety  here.' 

106 


THE    LAST   OF   BLACKBEARD     197 

'  It 's  a  comfort  to  have  learnt  you  're  not 
cannibals,'  said  the  cadet.  'That's  the  pre- 
valent opinion  at  home.' 

The  door  creaked  a  little  on  its  hinges,  and 
the  manager  looked  up  then  down  again. 

'  No,  we  're  civilised  to  a  point,'  responded 
Frere  thoughtfully.  'The  ladies  will  tell  you 
this  is  an  error,  but  it 's  a  fact.  Our  barbarism 
takes  only  the  form  of  monotony  and  hospitality. 
There's  always  a  seat  for  a  stranger  in  this 
country.' 

'  Glad  to  hear  it.' 

The  door  closed  sharply ;  all  turned  swiftly 
from  the  table  and  beheld  a  man  of  middle 
height,  with  a  short  black  beard,  standing  in 
the  doorway.  He  was  attired  after  the  rough 
bush  habit,  and  wore  a  wide  felt  hat  on  the 
back  of  his  head.     Frere  started  to  his  feet. 

'  What  the  devil ' 

The  breeze  blowing  in  the  trellis  of  the 
verandah  opened  a  peep-hole  for  the  dying 
sun,  and  a  beam  fell  sharply  upon  a  nozzle 
of  steel.  The  squatter  stopped  and  stared, 
and  the  cadet  and  the  manager  did  likewise. 

'  I  'm  particularly  peckish,'  said  the  new- 
comer, 'and  there's  a  vacant  seat  beside  the 


198    THE    LAST   OF   BLACKBEARD 

missis.  Reserved  for  an  honoured  guest,  I 
s'pose,'  he  added  with  a  grin ;  and  playing 
ostentatiously  with  his  weapon,  he  marched 
round  the  table  with  the  long  stride  of  one 
accustomed  to  the  saddle. 

'Who  are  you?'  asked  the  cadet  angrily, 
staring  in  astonishment  from  the  man  to  the 
squatter,  whose  face  had  turned  ashen.  The 
manager  pulled  him  down. 

•For  God's  sake,  sit  still,'  he  whispered. 
♦It's   Blackbeard.' 

The  man,  overhearing  the  tragic  whisper, 
grinned  and  nodded,  'A  young  man  out  from 
England,  I  s'pose.  Mister,  your  servant,'  and 
with  his  left  hand  he  whipped  his  chair  adroitly 
to  the  table.  Mrs.  Frere  shrank  away,  and 
Gray  made  a  sensible  movement  towards  her. 
Blackbeard  stuck  his  arm  upright  upon  the 
board,  and  leaned  his  head  upon  the  hand 
that  held  the  revolver.  Grabbing  his  plate 
with  the  other  hand,  he  pushed  it  into  the  air 
with  an  extravagant  gesture  of  bravado. 

'  Mutton  '11  suit  me  to  a  /,'  he  said.  *  Frere, 
some  mutton.' 

The  squatter's  hands  trembled  a  little ;  his 
eye  wandered  from  the  bushranger  to  his  wife. 


THE    LAST    OF    BLACKBEARD     199 

and  her  sister,  who  was  gazing  with  set  eyes  of 
horror  at  the  intruding  apparition.  He  laughed 
an  uneasy  laugh,  and  cut  some  meat. 

*  I  didn't  know  you  were  in  these  parts,' 
he  said  nervously.  'They  said  you  were  up 
Moolara  way.' 

'  Moolara 's  played  out,*  said  the  bushranger. 
'  But  Frere  's  always  good  for  a  poor  devil' 

He  laid  his  weapon  on  the  table,  and  seizing 
his  knife  and  fork,  began  his  meal.  For  some 
time  there  was  silence,  and  then  the  man  spoke 
again. 

*You  keep  good  sheep,  Frere  Esquire,'  he 
said.  *  Half-bred  Leicester,  ain't  it  ?  I  thought 
I  knew  the  breed.' 

Frere  made  no  answer,  but  looked  expec- 
tantly at  the  door. 

•Damn  it,  don't  let's  have  an  unsociable 
meal,'  said  the  man  in  aggrieved  tones.  '  Speak 
up,  Frere.  You  're  good  enough  on  the 
stump.  The  bully-faced  Garrod  never  had  a 
tongue.' 

He  leered  at  the  manager,  who  mumbled  in 
his  beard.     Frere  looked  at  the  door. 

*  I  suppose  you  've  managed  this  affair  all 
right,'  he  said  presently.     *  The  men ' 


200    THE    LAST    OF   BLACKBEARD 

*  Shut  up  in  the  barns,  with  Crusoe  standing 
guard,'  broke  in  Blackbeard.  '  I  ain't  the  sort 
to  make  a  miss  on  the  racket  I  Ve  played  so 
long,  mate.  Got  'em  all  in  a  corral,  with  Crusoe's 
lead  to  frighten  'em.  My  God,'  he  said,  swell- 
ing in  his  swagger,  *  I  'd  do  any  job  of  this  sort 
in  half  an  hour  with  a  boy  behind  me.  Crusoe 
and  me 's  fit  for  a  stationfuL' 

Frere  said  nothing,  but  still  glanced  at  the 
door.  The  bushranger  turned  to  the  white  girl 
on  his  right,  and  mincing  with  his  face,  bobbed 
his  head. 

'  Charming  weather,'  he  asserted.  '  A  trifle 
hot,  but  seasonable,  seasonable.' 

*  Very  hot,'  said  Frere,  pulling  the  girl's  chair 
towards  him.     '  Some  more  mutton  ?  ' 

'  Thank  ye,  Frere.     As  you  press  me ' 

The  cadet,  who  had  been  struck  dumb  with 
wonder  and  indignation,  now  made  a  movement, 
but  the  manager,  fearful  of  an  accident,  put 
out  his  hand,  and  whispered,  '  Don't  move. 
One  of  the  hands  will  be  here  directly.  He 's 
been  over  to  Forsyth.  If  he  comes  up  the  long 
track  Crusoe  '11  miss  him.  Frere  's  watching 
the  door.' 
'  Now,  young  gimcrack,  you  've  a  voice,'  said 


THE    LAST    OF   BLACKBEARD    201 

the  stranger  suddenly ;  *  what 's  your  senti- 
ments ? ' 

'  You  're  the  blackest-looking  ruffian  I  've 
seen  in  my  day,'  returned  the  cadet  promptly. 

Blackbeard  laughed.  '  It  ain't  exactly  polite,' 
he  said.  '  There 's  heaps  worse  than  me.  I  'm 
genteel  in  my  own  line,  ain't  I,  ladies  ? ' 

He  leered  round  the  table,  and  Frere  rose  to 
his  feet. 

'  Good  heavens,  man,'  he  cried,  *  let  the  ladies 
leave  the  room,  at  any  rate.' 

'  Sit  down,  Frere,'  said  the  bushranger.  '  Let 
'em  stop  and  see  the  play,  you  cruel  chap. 
It  '11  be  over  directly.' 

Frere  sat  down. 

'  Well,  well,  let  us  go  to  business,  then,'  he 
said  impatiently.     *  What  do  you  want  ? ' 

Blackbeard  sat  back  in  his  chair,  and  re- 
garded his  host  carelessly. 

'  If  I  'd  known  you  were  so  sensible,  I  'd  have 
been  here  long  ago,'  he  said.  *  I  won't  cut  you 
down  for  the  sake  of  the  dinner  and  the  ladies, 
but  I  '11  take  the  blessed  haul,  minus  ten  per 
cent,  and  a  couple  of  horses,  and  the  young 
gimcrack's  gold  watch.  I  'm  damn  sure  he 's 
got  a  gold  watch — they  all   have  when   they 


202    THE    LAST   OF   BLACKBEARD 

come  out    from   England — and   mine's  gone 
wrong.' 

*  Then  take  it  and  go,'  said  Frere,  whose  eyes 
suddenly  lighted  up.  A  sound  came  in  from 
the  verandah  ;  Blackbeard  made  no  movement, 
but  kept  his  keen  eyes  on  his  host,  whose  flurry 
was  now  perceptible.  The  cadet  turned,  and 
stared  at  the  door,  which  creaked.  The  manager 
eyed  Blackbeard  across  the  table.  In  another 
moment  there  was  a  footstep,  and  the  door 
opened.  Blackbeard  did  not  rise.  The  new- 
comer, a  station  hand,  hot  and  dusty  with  travel, 
broke  into  the  room,  then  stopped  with  his  eye 
on  the  bushranger.  There  was  a  general  move- 
ment. The  new-comer  backed  to  the  half-open 
door. 

'  Don't  go,  mate,'  cried  Blackbeard. 

'  Damn  you,  you  're  copped,*  cried  the  hand 
in  answer,  taking  the  doorway  at  a  stride. 

Blackbeard  raised  his  hand.  '  By  God,  you 
don't,'  he  said.  There  was  a  crack  of  a  re- 
volver, and  the  man  staggered  and  fell  halfway 
across  the  threshold. 

*  You  accursed  hound  ! '  yelled  the  manager. 
The  ladies  shrieked  ;  Frere  darted  forward,  and 
in  a  moment  Gray  had  his  hands  at  the  bush- 


THE    LAST    OF   BLACKBEARD    203 

ranger's  throat.  The  black  barrel  gleamed  in 
his  face,  in  which  the  sulphur  still  fumed,  and 
he  shrank  away, 

*  Remember,  gentlemen,  there  are  ladies 
present,'  said  the  bushranger  sardonically.  'Sit 
down  and  go  on  grubbing.'  He  walked  to  the 
door,  and  bent  over  the  fallen  man.  '  A  bit  of 
poultice  '11  do  him  right  enough,  and  I  '11  look 
in  on  the  road,  and  send  a  doctor  from  Moolara. 
Very  sorry,  matey,  but  there  ain't  afterthoughts 
in  my  profession.' 

'  Out,  you  black  scoundrel ! '  said  Frere 
fiercely. 

*  Going,  going,  boss,'  returned  he ;  *  but  first 
you  and  I  do  this  business  together.' 

Frere  threw  down  a  purse  with  a  gesture  of 
impatience.  The  bushranger  scrutinised  it  and 
winked. 

*  I  fancy  I  ain't  come  for  this,*  he  said.  '  Frere 
Esquire  paid  a  visit  to  his  bank  last  week,  and 
said  bank  ain't  empty.  I  ought  to  know  the 
size  of  a  cashbox  when  I  see  it  by  this  time.' 

He  indicated  a  bureau  at  the  bottom  of  the 
room.     Frere  laughed  harshly. 

'  You  're  mighty  smart,  Blackbeard.  Why 
didn't  you  take  to  politics  ? ' 


204    THE    LAST    OF    BLACKBEARD 

*  I  would  make  a  good  Attorney-General, 
Frere,  wouldn't  I  ? ' 

The  squatter  unlocked  his  bureau  and  took 
out  an  iron  box.  'Take  it  and  go,'  he  said 
irritably. 

*  Hold  on  a  bit ;  my  mount 's  a  bit  groggy, 
and  I  '11  take  the  liberty  of  borrowing  a  horse 
from  you,  Frere.  Just  you  come  along  and  help 
me  choose  him.  I  shall  want  a  fast  one  to 
get  this  blamed  doctor  for  you.  There's  two 
women,'  he  said,  looking  round,  'and  a  lame 

man.     They  can  look  after  him.     I  '11  take 

No,  sonny,'  he  said,  with  a  grin  at  the  cadet. 
'  Hang  it,  I  ain't  come  to  being  scared  of  a 
new  chum.  Stop  and  take  care  of  the  women, 
sonny ;  we  '11  manage  the  horses.'  So  saying, 
he  took  Frere's  arm  with  one  hand,  and  Garrod's 
with  the  other,  and  marched  out  between  his 
unwilling  attendants.  The  door  shut  to 
sharply. 

As  they  vanished  through  the  doorway  there 
was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  Gray  stepped 
forward  and  pulled  at  the  handle. 

'Why,  it's  not  locked,'  he  exclaimed  in 
surprise. 

'Oh,  please  don't  go.     Shut  it  again,'  cried 


THE   LAST   OF    BLACKBEARD    20s 

Mrs.  Frere  anxiously.  '  He  *11  do  some  more 
harm  if  you  follow.' 

*Yes,  let  him  alone,  and  he'll  go  away 
quietly,*  said  her  sister,  who  had  bent  down 
over  the  wounded  man. 

Gray  stood  in  thought.  The  frank  contempt 
of  the  bushranger  for  all  new  chums,  as  for 
something  ignoble  and  ludicrous,  rankled  in  his 
bosom. 

'  I  can't  let  him  go  off  like  this,'  he  said  at 
last.    '  If  I  knew  where  there  was  a  gun ' 

'  There 's  a  revolver  in  the  kitchen,  Mr.  Gray,* 
said  the  hand.    '  Shoot  the  brute  right  away.* 

'  No,  no,'  said  Mrs.  Frere. 

But  Gray  was  already  gone.  The  wounded 
pride  of  manhood  smarted  bitterly ;  and  as  he 
crossed  the  verandah  and  passed  into  the  yard, 
he  was  resolved  to  prove  himself  the  superior  of 
this  bragging  bully.  The  hacks  were  loose  in  a 
paddock  beyond  the  stables,  and  he  knew  that 
Blackbeard  was  taking  his  companions  in  that 
direction.  But  over  a  piece  of  kitchen-garden 
and  along  a  line  of  young  blue-gums,  a  shorter 
track  led  to  the  stables — of  which  it  was  not  at 
all  likely  that  the  bushranger  was  aware.  To 
pursue  this  was  to  cut  him  off,  and  come  out  in 


206    THE    LAST    OF    BLACKBEARD 

concealment  ere  he  reached  the  paddock.  He 
leapt  over  the  little  fence  beyond  a  patch  of  cab- 
bages, and  struck  off  through  the  next  paddock 
as  fast  as  he  might.  Twenty  yards  further  he 
crawled  through  the  hedge  of  furze,  and  was 
in  the  open  yards  about  the  stables.  He  came 
out  immediately  at  the  back  of  a  building,  and, 
having  no  fear  of  being  seen,  and  being  anxious 
to  arrive  in  time,  he  crept  round  the  corner  and 
dashed  into  a  run.  Halfway  across  the  stable- 
yard  a  man  hailed  him  suddenly. 

*  Say,  mister,  have  you  got  a  light  ? ' 

He  stopped,  and  turning  quickly  in  the 
direction  of  the  sound,  saw  a  mean-looking 
little  man,  clad  in  very  foul  corduroys,  but 
otherwise  after  the  ordinary  fashion  of  the 
station  hands.  He  had  a  broken  cutty  pipe 
in  his  mouth,  and  was  stuffing  down  the  black 
tobacco  with  his  fingers  as  he  approached  the 
cadet. 

'Lend  me  a  match,  mate,'  he  asked  in  a 
squeaky  voice. 

Gray,  in  the  full  swing  of  his  breathless  ex- 
citement, took  him  by  the  arm. 

*  Come  on,'  he  said  eagerly ;  '  come  and  give 
me  a  hand.     There 's  a  bushranger  about' 


THE    LAST   OF    BLACKBEARD    207 

*  Blackbeard  ? '  queried  the  dirty  little  man. 

*  Yes,  I  'm  on  his  trail ;  follow  me.' 

'  Hold  on  !  If  it's  Blackbeard,  seems  to  me, 
matey,  you  'd  better  quit.  He 's  a  rare  one,  is 
Blackbeard.     Taken  much  ?' 

Gray  nodded,  with  his  eyes  roaming  anxiously 
about  the  horizon. 

'Who'll  he  have  with  him?'  asked  the 
stranger.    '  Why,  Crusoe,  I  s'pose.' 

Gray  nodded.    '  Yes,  yes  ;  I  believe  so.' 

'Well,  better  stop  and  get  breath,'  said  the 
little  man  soothingly.  *  Crusoe's  a  smart  chap, 
too.  I  heard  tell  how  he  stuck  up  a  place  with- 
out a  mate,  and  no  more  ammunition  than  an 
old  gin-bottle.     Oh,  he 's  a  smart  chap.' 

*  Look  here,  my  man,'  said  Gray  impatiently, 
'  are  you  coming  with  me  or  not  ? ' 

'  Not  much,'  was  the  answer,  followed  by  a 
chuckle. 

'  Why,  there  they  go,'  said  the  cadet  excitedly ; 
'see  him  moving  down  to  that  paddock  with 
the  white  gate.     I  '11  just  be  in  time.' 

'  Not  much,  you  fool,'  said  the  squeaky  voice. 
*  You  just  got  to  stay  here  and  be  friendly  like.' 

Gray  turned  slowly  to  his  companion,  struck 
mute  with  astonishment,  and  looked  into  the 


208    THE    LAST    OF   BLACKBEARD 

barrel  of  a  revolver.  Suddenly  the  truth  flashed 
upon  him.     '  Crusoe  ! '  he  stammered. 

'  That 's  about  it,'  said  the  other  complacently ; 
'  and  you  're  a  new  chum,  I  '11  lay.' 

'  How  infernally  ignominious,'  thought  Gray, 
as  he  contemplated  the  pigmy  figure  of  his 
gaoler. 

'  No  go,  guv'nor.     Put  down  your  *ands.' 

Gray  bit  his  lips.  'What  do  you  intend  to 
do  ? '  he  asked. 

'Nothin',  Johnny,  nothin'.  Sit  still,  that's 
all.  Me  and  Blackbeard  don't  like  making  a 
mess.' 

'  He 's  made  a  mess  down  at  the  house,'  said 
Gray  sharply. 

'  Oh,  has  he  ? '  said  Crusoe  thoughtfully. 
*  Then  I  suppose  we  '11  have  to  lay  low  a  bit' 

As  he  spoke  there  was  the  report  of  a  gun, 
and  a  bullet  sang  in  Gray's  ears. 

'  What  the  devil ! '  cried  Crusoe,  whipping 
round  upon  his  prisoner ;  but  Gray  was  staring 
towards  the  house  in  wonder. 

'  Oh,  some  one  over  there ! '  said  Crusoe. 
'  Well,  this  looks  like  getting  too  hot  for  me ; 
we  '11  go  behind  the  stable.' 

He  seized  Gray  by  the  arm,  but  as  he  turned 


THE    LAST    OF    BLACKBEARD    209 

threw  up  his  hands  suddenly  and  gasped.  A 
loud  report  followed.  The  bushranger  fell 
against  the  cadet,  and  slipped  awkwardly  to 
the  ground  in  a  heap.  The  cadet  looked  with 
curious  terror  on  the  body,  and  then  back 
towards  the  house.  The  gorse  on  the  hedge 
through  which  he  had  crept  parted,  and  for  a 
moment  he  saw  the  glint  of  a  gun  and  the  face 
of  the  wounded  hand.  He  had  hardly  time  to 
make  the  discovery  when  he  heard  the  sound  of 
voices  behind  him,  and  the  footsteps  of  some 
people  running  drew  nearer. 

'  Blackbeard,'  he  thought,  and  darting  across 
the  yard,  crept  into  a  patch  of  scrub  which  had 
not  been  cleared  from  before  the  stables.  He 
was  no  sooner  in  hiding  than  the  bushranger, 
with  his  two  reluctant  hosts,  turned  the  corner 
and  came  into  the  yard. 

'By  God  I'  said  Blackbeard,  as  his  eyes  fell  on 
Crusoe's  body,  *  shot,  and  shot  in  the  back,'  He 
looked  slowly  round.  *  To  think  it  should  be 
that  new  chum  of  yours,  Frere,  A  long  shot, 
a  straight  shot,  and  a  damned  shabby  shot.' 

Frere  turned  away  with  a  movement  of  dis- 
gust, 

*  You  'd  better  go,'  he  said.  '  Here 's  more 
O 


210    THE    LAST    OF   BLACKBEARD 

bloodshed  than  I  want  to  deal  with.  Take  the 
horse  and  be  off.' 

Blackbeard  said  nothing,  but  handling  his 
revolver,  turned  slowly  round,  scrutinised  all 
the  quarters  of  the  yard.  His  eyes  rested 
uneasily  upon  the  patch  of  scrub. 

'Going,  Frere,  going,'  he  said  at  last,  and 
appeared  to  meditate.  *  That  cadet  of  yours  is 
too  good  a  shot,  and  I  don't  hold  with  scurvy 
fighting.  I  like  to  know  where  my  man  is.' 
His  eyes  returned  to  the  scrub,  and  he  backed 
behind  Garrod.  '  Look  here,  Frere,'  he  said  at 
last,  'let's  call  a  truce.  We've  bungled  this 
business,  and  it 's  my  fault  Let 's  set  the  clock 
back.  You  take  the  swag  again,  and  give  me  a 
hundred  paces.  I  don't  like  that  shot  in  the 
back,  and  it 's  a  fact.  Make  a  bargain  with  me, 
and  I  '11  trouble  you  to  make  it  at  the  top  of 
your  voice,  too.'  As  he  spoke  he  raised  his 
own  fast  voice,  still  with  his  eye  on  the  scrub. 
'  Here 's  the  gold  again,  and  now  you  take  your 
oath  to  let  me  go  free  from  any  darned  sharp- 
shooter to  the  corner  of  the  paddock.  After 
that  he  may  go  to  the  devil.' 

'  I  agree,'  said  Frere. 

'  Shake  hands  on  it,  mate,' 


THE    LAST    OF   BLACKBEARD    211 

Blackbeard  gripped  the  squatter  firmly,  and 
then  ostentatiously  stuck  his  revolver  back  into 
his  belt,  and  with  one  final  glance  at  the  scrub, 
turned  his  back  upon  his  companions  and  strode 
out  of  the  yard.  His  way  lay  very  close  to  the 
scrub,  and  as  he  passed  it,  a  movement  was 
discernible  in  the  bushes. 

*  Lie  down,  man,'  said  Frere  angrily.  Black- 
beard  said  nothing,  but  kept  his  eye  on  the 
spot  and  his  hand  on  the  weapon.  Suddenly, 
and  with  a  spring.  Gray  stood  on  the  pathway 
before  him.  Bang  went  Blackbeard's  revolver 
in  a  moment,  and  the  next  instant  the  new 
chum  grappled  with  him.  The  two  men 
wrestled  together,  and  Frere,  running  up,  heard 
Gray's  voice  shouting  breathlessly  and  per- 
sistently, '  Surrender,  you  ruffian !  Surrender, 
you  ruffian !  * 

The  struggle  endured  for  some  minutes,  but 
neither  man  got  any  material  advantage  over 
the  other,  and  then  the  bushranger  suddenly 
flung  himself  clear  of  his  adversary,  and  levelled 
his  weapon.  Gray  fingered  stupidly  for  his 
revolver,  but  could  not  find  it.  There  was  an 
instant's  hesitation,  and  then  he  had  rushed 
with  lifted  fist  upon  Blackbeard.    As  he  did 


212    THE    LAST    OF   BLACKBEARD 

so  the  latter  pulled  his  trigger,  but  the  same 
moment  there  came  a  crack  from  Garrod's 
direction,  and  the  bushranger  fell  over  on  his 
side.  Gray  stumbled  and  fell  upon  the  pro- 
strate man,  who  swore  feebly. 

*  Who  shot  me  ?  *  he  asked  faintly.  '  Bully- 
faced  Garrod,  by  God!  That  was  damned 
mean,  too;'  and  his  body  shook  and  settled 
into  silence. 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  Her  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


John  Lane 

VIGO   STREET,    LONDON,    W. 


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Series  are   published    in    the   United  States  by 
Messrs.  Roberts  Bros,  of  Boston. 


THE  KEYNOTES  SERIES 


Sixth  Edition,  now  ready. 

KEYNOTES.     By  George  Egerton.     With  Title-page  by 
Aubrey  Beardsley.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  3s.  6d.  net. 

'  Emboldened,  doubtless,  by  the  success  of  "  Dodo,"  the  author  of  "  Key- 
notes "  offers  us  a  set  of  stories  written  with  the  least  amount  of  literary 
skill  and  in  the  worst  literary  taste.  We  have  refrained  from  quotatioD, 
for  fear  of  giving  to  this  book  an  importance  which  it  do6s  not  merit." — Pail 
Mall  Gazette. 

'The  sirens  sing  in  it  from  the  first  page  to  the  last.  It  may,  perhaps, 
shock  you  with  disregard  of  conventionality  and  reticencies,  but  you  will 
all  the  same  have  to  admit  its  fascination.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  in 
Mr.  George  Egerton  his  publishers  have  discovered  a  story-teller  of  genius. 
— Star. 

'  This  is  a  collection  of  eight  ot  the  prettiest  short  stories  that  have  ap- 
peared for  many  a  day.  1  hey  turn  for  the  most  part  on  feminine  traits  of 
character;  in  fact,  the  book  is  a  little  psychological  study  of  woman  under 
various  circumstances.  The  characters  are  so  admirably  drawn,  and  the 
scenes  and  landscapes  are  described  with  so  much  and  so  rare  vividness, 
that  one  cannot  help  being  almost  spell-bound  by  their  perusal.' — St.  James's 
Gazette. 

'  A  rich,  passionate  temperament  vibrates  through  every  line.  .  .  .  We 
have  met  nothing  so  lovely  in  its  tenderness  since  Mr.  Kipling's  "  Without 
Benefit  of  Clergy. " ' — Daily  Chronicle. 

'  For  any  one  who  cares  more  tor  truth  than  for  orthodox  mummery,  and 
for  the  real  flood  of  the  human  heart  than  for  the  tepid  negus  which  stirs 
the  veins  of  respectability,  this  little  book  deserves  a  hearty  welcome.' 
— Sketch. 

'  Singularly  artistic  in  its  brilliant  suggestiveness.' — Daily  News. 

'  This  is  a  book  which  is  a  portentous  sign  ot  our  times.  The  wildness, 
the  fierceness,  the  animality  that  underlie  the  soft,  smooth  surface  of 
woman's  pretty  and  subdued  face — this  is  the  theme  to  which  she  again  and 
again  recurs.' — T.  P.  in  H^'eekly  Sun. 

'  To  credit  a  new  writer  with  the  possession  of  genius  is  a  serious  matter, 
but  it  is  nevertheless  a  verdict  which  Mr.  George  Egerton  can  hardly 
avoid  at  the  hands  of  those  who  read  his  delightful  sketches.' — Liverpool 
Post. 

*  These  lovely  sketches  are  informed  by  such  throbbing  feeling,  such  in- 
sight into  complex  woman,  that  we  with  all  speed  and  warmth  advise  those 
who  are  in  search  of  splendid  literature  to  procure  "  Keynotes  "  without 
delay.' — Literary  World. 

*  These  very  clever  stories  of  Mr.  Egerton's.' — Black  and  White. 

'  The  reading  of  it  is  an  adventure,  and,  once  begun,  it  is  hard  to  tear 
yourself  from  the  book  till  you  have  devoured  every  line.  There  is  im- 
pulsive life  in  every  word  of  it.  It  has  passion,  ardour,  vehement  romance. 
It  is  full  of  youth;  often  enough  the  revolt  and  despair  of  youth.' — Irish 
Independent. 

'  Every  line  of  the  book  gives  the  impression  that  here  some  woman  has 
crystallised  her  life's  drama ;  has  written  down  her  soul  upon  the  page.  — 
Review  of  Reviews. 

'The  work  of  a  woman  who  has  lived  every  hour  of  her  life,  be  she  young 
or  old.  .  .  .  She  allows  us,  like  the  great  artists  of  old,  Shakespeare  and 
Goethe,  to  draw  our  own  moral  from  the  stories  she  tells,  and  it  is  with  no 
uncertain  touch  or  faltering  hand  that  she  pulls  aside  the  curtain  of  con- 
ventional hypocrisy  which  hundreds  of  women  hang  between  the  world  and 
their  own  hearts.  .  .  .  The  insight  of  the  writer  into  the  curious  and  com- 
plicated nature  of  women  is  almost  miraculous.' — Lady's  Pictorial. 

'  Not  since  the  "  Story  of  an  African  Farm  "  was  written  has  any  woman 
delivered  herself  of  so  strong,  so  forcible  a  book.' — Queen. 


THE  KEYNOTES  SERIES 


'She  is  a  writer  with  a  profound  understanding  of  the  human  heart.  She 
understands  n^en  ;  and,  more  than  this,  she  understands  women.  .  .  .  For 
those  who  weary  of  the  conventional  fiction,  and  who  long  for  something 
out  of  the  ordinary  run  of  things,  these  are  tales  that  carry  the  zest  of 
living.' — Boston  Beacon. 

'  It  is  not  a  book  for  babes  and  sucklings,  since  it  cuts  deep  into  rather 
dangerous  soil ;  but  it  is  refined  and  skilful  .  .  .  strikes  a  very  true  and 
touching  note  of  pathos.' — Westntinster  Gazette, 

'  The  author  of  these  able  word  sketches  is  manifestly  a  close  observer  of 
Nature's  moods,  and  one,  moreover,  who  carefully  takes  stock  of  the  up- 
to-date  thoughts  that  shake  mankind.' — Daily  Telegraph. 

'  Powerful  pictures  of  human  beings  living  to-day,  full  of  burning  pain, 
and  thought,  and  passion.' — Bookman. 

'A  work  of  genius.  There  is  upon  the  whole  thing  a  stamp  of  down- 
right inevitableness  as  of  things  which  must  be  written,  and  written  exactly 
in  that  way." — Speaker. 

' "  Keynotes  "  is  a  singularly  clever  book.' — Truth. 


THE  DANCING  FAUN.  By  Florence  Farr,  With 
Title-page  and  Cover  Design  by  Aubrey  Beardsley. 
Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d.  net. 

'  We  welcome  the  light  and  merry  pen  of  Miss  Farr  as  one  of  the  deftest 
that  has  been  wielded  in  the  style  of  to-tlay.  She  has  written  the  cleverest 
and  the  most  cynical  sensation  story  of  the  season.' — Liverpool  Daily  Post. 

'  Slight  as  It  is,  the  story  is,  in  its  way,  strong.' — Literary  World. 

'  Full  of  bright  paradox,  and  paradox  which  is  no  mere  topsy-turvy  play 
upon  words,  but  the  product  of  serious  thinking  upon  life.  One  of  the 
cleverest  of  recent  novels.'— iVar. 

'  It  is  full  of  epigrammatic  effects,  and  it  has  a  certain  thread  of  pathos 
calculated  to  win  our  sympathy.'— (7i</m». 

'The  story  is  subtle  and  psychological  after  the  fashion  of  modem 
psychology ;  it  is  undeniably  clever  and  smartly  written.' — Gentlewcmatt. 

'  No  one  can  deny  its  freshness  and  wit.  Indeed  there  are  things  in  it 
here  and  there  which  John  Oliver  Hobbes  herself  might  have  signed  with- 
out loss  of  reputation." — iVonian. 

'  There  is  a  lurid  power  in  the  very  unreality  of  the  story.  One  does  not 
quite  understand  how  Lady  Geraldine  worked  herself  up  to  shooting  her 
lover,  but  when  she  has  done  it,  the  description  of  what  passes  through  her 
mind  is  magnificent.' — Athenaum. 

'  Written  by  an  obviously  clever  wonjan.' — Black  and  White. 

•Miss  Farr  has  talent.  "The  Dancing  Faun "  contains  writing  that  is 
distinctively  good.  Doubtless  it  is  only  a  prelude  to  something  much 
stronger. ' — A  cademy. 

'As  a  work  of  art  the  book  has  the  merit  of  brevity  and  smart  writing ; 
while  the  denouement  is  skilfully  prepared,  and  comes  as  a  surprise.  If 
the  book  had  been  intended  as  a  satire  on  the  "new  woman"  sort  of  litera- 
ture, it  would  have  been  most  brilliant ;  but  assuming  it  to  be  written  in 
earnest,  we  can  heartily  praise  the  form  of  its  construction  without 
agreeing  with  the  sentiments  expressed.' — St.  James's  Gazette. 

Shows  considerable  power  and  aptitude.' — Saturday  Review. 

'The  book  is  extremely  clever  and  some  of  the  situations  very  striking, 
while  there  are  sketches  of  character  which  really  live.  The  final  denoue- 
ment might  at  first  sight  be  thought  impossible,  but  the  effect  on  those  who 
take  part  in  it  is  so  free  of  ex.-ig>;eration,  that  we  can  almost  imagine  that 
such  people  are  in  our  mirlst' — Guardian. 


THE  KEYNOTES  SERIES 


POOR  FOLK.  Translated  from  the  Russian  of  Fedor 
Dostoievsky.  By  Lena  Milman.  With  an  Intro- 
duction by  George  Moore,  and  a  Title-page  and  Cover 
Design  by  Aubrey  Beardsley.    Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d.  net. 

'  The  book  is  cleverly  translated.  "  Poor  Folk  "  gains  in  reality  and  pathos 
by  the  very  means  that  in  less  skilful  hands  would  be  tedious  and  common- 
place. '  — Spectator. 

'  A  charming  story  of  the  love  of  a  Charles  Lamb  kind  of  old  bachelor 
for  a  young  work-girl.  Full  of  quiet  humour  and  still  more  full  of  the 
lachrynue  rerutn.' — Star. 

'Scenes  of  poignant  realism,  described  with  so  admirable  a  blending  of 
humour  and  pathos  that  they  haunt  the  memory.' — Daily  News. 

'  No  one  will  read  it  attentively  without  feeling  both  its  power  and  its 
pathos. ' — Scotsman. 

'  The  book  is  one  of  great  pathos  and  absorbing  interest.  Miss  Milman 
has  given  us  an  admir.-ii)le  version  of  it  which  will  commend  itself  to  every 
one  who  cares  for  good  literature." — Glasgow  Herald. 

'  These  things  seem  small,  but  in  the  hands  of  Dostoievsky  they  make 
a  work  of  genius.' — Black  and  White. 

'  One  of  the  most  pathetic  things  in  all  literature,  heartrending  just 
because  its  tragedy  is  so  repressed.' — Bookman. 

'As  to  novels,  the  very  finest  I  have  read  of  late  or  for  long  is  "  Poor  Folk, 
by  Fedor  Dostoievsky,  translated  by  Miss  Lena  Milman.' — Truth. 

'  A  book  to  be  read  for  the  merits  of  its  execution.  The  translator  by 
the  way  has  turned  it  into  excellent  English.' — Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

'  The  narrative  vibrates  with  feeling,  and  these  few  unstudied  letters  con- 
vey to  us  a  cry  from  the  depths  of  a  famished  human  soul.  As  far  as  we 
can  judge,  the  English  rendering,  though  simple,  retains  that  ring  of 
emotion  which  must  distinguish  the  original.' — Westminster  Review. 

'  One  of  the  most  striking  studies  in  plain  and  simple  realism  which  was 
ever  written.' — Daily  Telegraph. 

"'Poor  Folk"  is  certainly  a  vivid  and  pathetic  story.' — Globe. 

'  A  triumph  of  realistic  art — a  masterpiece  of  a  great  writer.' — Morning 
Post. 

'Dostoievsky's  novel  has  met  with  that  rare  advantage,  a  really  good 
translator. ' — Queen. 

'  This  admirable  translation  of  a  great  author.' — Liverpool  Mercury. 

'  "  Poor  Folk"  Englished  does  not  read  like  a  translation — indubitably  a 
masterpiece.' — Literary  World. 

'  Told  with  a  gradually  deepening  intensity  and  force,  a  pathetic  truth- 
fulness which  lives  in  the  memory.' — Leeds  Mercury. 

'What  Charles  Dickens  in  his  attempts  to  reproduce  the  sentiment  and 
pathos  of  the  humble  deceived  himself  and  others  into  thinking  that  he  did, 
that  Fedor  Dostoievsky  actually  doc^.'  —Manchester  Guardian. 

'  It  is  a  story  that  leaves  the  reader  almost  stunned.  Miss  Milman's 
translation  b  admirable.' — Gentlewoman. 

'  The  translation  appears  to  be  well  done  so  far  as  we  have  compared  it 
with  the  original.' — W.  R.  Morfill  in  The  Academy. 

'A  most  impressive  and  characteristic  specimen  of  Russian  fiction. 
Those  to  whom  Russian  is  a  sealed  book  will  be  duly  grateful  to  the  trans- 
lator (who  has  acquitted  herself  excellently),  to  Mr.  Moore,  and  to  the 
publisher  for  this  presentment  of  Dostoievsky's  remarkable  novel.' — Times. 


THE  KEYNOTES  SERIES 


A  CHILD  OF  THE  AGE.  By  Francis  Adams.  Title- 
page  and  Cover  Design  by  Aubrey  Beardsley.  Crown 
8vo,  3s.  6d.  net. 

'  English  or  foreign,  there  in  no  work  among  those  now  before  me  which 
is  so  original  as  that  of  the  late  Francis  Adams.  "  A  Child  of  the  Age  "  is 
original,  moving,  often  fascinating.' — Academy. 

'  A  great  deal  of  cleverness  and  perhaps  something  more  has  gone  to  the 
writing  of  "  A  Child  of  the  Age."  '—Vanity  Fair. 

'  It  comes  recognisably  near  to  great  excellence.  _  There  is  a  love  episode 
in  this  book  which  is  certainly  fine.  Clearly  conceived  and  expressed  with 
point.' — Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

'  Those  whose  actual  experience  or  natural  intuition  will  enable  them  to 
see  beneath  the  mere  narrative,  will  appreciate  the  perfect  art  with  which 
a  boy  of  nineteen — this  was  the  author's  age  when  the  book  was  written — 
has  treated  one  of  the  most  delicate  subjects  on  which  a  man  can  write — 
the  history  of  his  own  innermost  feelings.' — Weekly  Sun. 

'  The  book  possesses  a  depth  and  clearness  of  insight,  a  delicacy  of  touch, 
and  a  brilliancy  and  beauty  of  style  very  remarkable  in  so  young  a  writer.' 
— Weekly  Scotsman. 

'"A  Child  of  the  Age  "  is  as  fully  saturated  with  the  individuality  of  its 
author  as  "  Wuthering  Heights"  was  saturated  with  the  individuality  of 
Emily  Bronte.' — Daily  Chronicle. 

'  I  am  writing  about  the  book  because  it  is  one  you  should  read,  for  it  is 
typical  of  a  certain  sort  of  character  and  contains  some  indubitable  excel- 
lences."—/'a//  Mall  Budget. 

'  Not  faultless,  indeed,  but  touched  with  the  nia^ic  of  real  poetry ;  with- 
out the  elaborate  carving  of  the  chisel.  The  love  incident  is  exquisite  and 
exquisitely  told.  "Rosy"  lives;  her  emotions  stir  us.  Wonderfully  sug- 
gested in  several  parts  of  the  work  is  the  severe  irony  of  nattire  before 
profound  human  siiJfrering.' — Saturday  Review. 

'There  is  a  bloom  of  romance  upon  their  story  which  recalls  Lucy  and 

Richard  Feverel It  is  rarely  that  a  novelist  is  able  to  suffuse  his 

story  with  the  first  rosy  purity  of  passion  as  Mr.  Adams  has  done  in  this 
book.' — Realm. 

'  Only  a  man  of  big  talent  could  have  produced  it,' — Literary  World. 

'A  tale  of  fresh  originality,  deep  spiritual  meaning,  and  exceptional 
power.  It  fairly  buds,  blossoms^  and  fruits  with  suggestions  that  search 
the  human  spirit  through.  No  similar  production  has  come  from  the  hand 
of  any  author  in  our  time.  It  exalts,  inspires,  comforts,  and  strengthens 
all  together.  It  instructs  by  suggestion,  spiritualises  the  thought  by  its 
elevating  and  purifying  narrative,  and  feeds  the  hungering  spirit  with 
food  it  is  only  too  ready  to  accept  and  assimilate.' — Boston  Courier,  U.S.  A . 

'  It  is  a  remarkable  work— as  a  pathological  study  almost  unsurpassed. 
It  produces  the  impression  of  a  photograph  from  life,  so  vividly  realistic  is 
the  treatment.  To  this  result  the  author's  style,  with  its  fidelity  of  micro- 
scopic detail,  doubtless  contributes.' — Evening  Traveller,  U.S.A. 

'  The  story  by  Francis  Adams  is  one  to  read  slowly,  and  then  to  read  a 
second  time.  _  It  is  powerfully  written,  full  of  strong  suggestion,  unlike, 
in  fact,  anything  we  have  recently  read.  What  he  would  have  done  in  the 
way  of  literary  creation,  had  he  lived,  is,  of  course,  only  a  matter  of  con- 
jecture. What  he  did  we  have  before  us  in  this  remarkable  book.' — Boston 
Advertiser,  U.S.A. 


THE  KEYNOTES  SERIES 


Second  Edition  now  ready. 

THE  GREAT  GOD  PAN  and  THE  INMOST  LIGHT. 
By  Arthur  Machen.  With  Title-page  and  Cover 
Design  by  Aubrey  Beardsley.  Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d. 
net. 

'Since  Mr.  Stevenson  played  with  the  crucibles  of  science  in  "Dr. 
Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde  "  we  have  not  encountered  a  more  successful  experi- 
ment of  the  sort.' — Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

'  Nothing  so  appalling  as  these  tales  has  been  given  to  publicity  within 
our  remembrance ;  in  which,  nevertheless,  such  ghastly  fictions  as  Poe's 
"  Telltale  Heart,"  Bulwer's  "The  House  and  the  Brain,"  and  Le  Fanu's 
"In  a  Glass  Darkly"  still  are  vividly  present.  The  supernatural  element 
is  utilised  with  extraordinary  power  and  effectiveness  in  both  these  blood- 
chilling  masterpieces.' — Daily  Telegraph. 

'  He  imparts  the  shudder  of  awe  without  giving  rise  to  a  feeling  of  disgust. 
Let  me  strongly  advise  anyone  anxious  for  a  real,  durable  thrill,  to  get  it.' — 
IVomaK. 

'A nightmarish  business  it  is — suggested,  seemingly,  by  "  Dr.  Jekyll  and 
Mr.  Hyde" — and  capital  reading,  we  should  say,  for  ghouls  and  vampires 
in  their  leisure  moments.' — Daily  C/ironicle. 

'  The  rest  we  leave  for  those  whose  nerves  are  strong,  merely  saying  that 
since  "  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,"  we  have  read  nothing  so  uncanny.' — 
The  Literary  World. 

'  The  literature  of  the  "  supernatural "  has  recently  been  supplemented 
by  two  striking  books,  which  carry  on  with  much  ability  the  traditions  of 
Sheridan  Le  Fanu:  one  is  "The  Great  God  Pan,"  by  Arthur  Machen.' — 
Star. 

'  Will  arouse  the  sort  of  interest  that  was  created  by  "  Dr.  Jekyll  and 
Mr.  Hyde."  The  tales  present  a  frankly  impossible  horror,  which,  never- 
theless, kindles  the  imagination  and  excites  a  powerful  curiosity.  It  is 
almost  a  book  of  genius,  and  we  are  not  sure  that  the  safeguarding  adverb 
is  not  superfluous.' — Birmingham  Post. 

'The  coarser  terrors  of  Edgar  Allen  Poe  do  not  leave  behind  them  the 
shudder  that  one  feels  at  the  shadowed  devil-mysteries  of  "The  Great  God 
Pan." ' — Liverpool  Mercury. 

'  if  day  one  labours  under  a  burning  desire  to  experience  the  sensation 
familiarly  known  as  making  one's  flesh  creep,  he  can  hardly  do  better  than 
read  "The  Great  God  Pan." ' — Speaker. 

'  For  sheer  gruesome  horror  Mr.  Machen's  story,  "The  Great  God  Pan," 
surpasses  anything  that  has  been  published  for  a  long  time.' — Scotsman. 

'  Nothing  more  striking  or  more  skilful  than  this  book  has  been  produced 
in  the  way  of  what  one  may  call  Borderland  fiction  since  Mr.  Stevenson's 
indefatigable  Brownies  gave  the  world  "  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde." ' — 
Glasgow  Herald. 

'  The  mysteries  he  deals  with  lie  far  beyond  the  reach  of  ordinary  human 
experience,  and  as  they  are  vague,  though  so  horror-producing,  he  wbely 
treats  them  with  a  reticence  that,  while  it  accords  with  the  theme,  im- 
mensely heightens  the  effect." — Dundee  Advertiser. 

'The  author  is  an  artist,  and  tells  his  tale  with  reticence  and  grace, 
hinting  the  demoniac  secret  at  first  obscurely,  and  only  gradually  permit- 
ting the  reader  to  divine  how  near  to  us  are  the  infernal  powers,  and  how 
terribly  they  satiate  their  lusts  and  wreak  their  malice  upon  mankind.  It 
is  a  work  of  something  like  genius,  fascinating  and  fearsome.' — Bradford 
Observer. 


THE  KEYNOTES  SERIES 


'  They  are  fitting  companions  to  the  famous  stories  by  Edgar  Allan  Poe 
both  in  matter  and  siy\e,'— Boston  Home  Journal,  U.S.A. 

'  They  are  horror  stories,  the  horror  being  of  the  vague  psychologic  kind 
and  dependent  in  each  case  upon  a  man  of  science,  who  tries  to  effect  a 
change  in  individual  personality  by  an  operation  upon  the  brain  cells. 
TTie  implied  lesson  is  that  it  is  dangerous  and  unwise  to  seek  to  probe  the 
mystery  separating  mind  and  patter.  These  sketches  are  extremely 
strong,  and  we  guarantee  the  shivers  to  anyone  who  reads  them.' — Hart- 
ford Covrant,  U.S.A. 


Fourth  Edition  now  ready. 

DISCORDS.  By  George  Egerton.  With  Title-page  and 
Cover  Design  by  Aubrey  Beardsley.  Crown  8vo, 
3s.  6cl.  net. 

'We  have  the  heights  as  well  as  the  depths  of  life.  The  transforming 
touch  of  beauty  is  upon  it,  of  that  jjoetry  of  conception  beneath  whose  spell 
nothing  is  ugly  or  unclean.' — Star. 

'The  writer  is  a  warm-blooded  enthusiast,  not  a  cold-blooded 
"scientist."  In  the  long  run  perhaps  it  will  do  some  good.' — National 
Observer. 

'The  power  and  passion  which  every  reader  felt  in  "Keynotes"  are 
equally  present  in  this  new  volume.  But  there  is  also  in  at  least  equal 
measure  that  artistic  force  and  skill  which  went  so  far  to  overcome  the 
repugnance  which  many  felt  to  the  painful  dissection  of  feminine  nature.' — 
North  British  Daily  Mail. 

'  Force  of  conception  and  power  of  vivid  presentment  mark  these  sketches, 
and  are  sure  to  impress  all  who  read  them.' — Birmingliam  Post. 

'Written  with  all  "George  Egerton's"  eloquence  and  fervour.' — York- 
shire Herald. 

'  It  almost  takes  one's  breath  away  by  its  prodigious  wrong-headedness, 
its  sheer  impudence.' — Mr.  A.  B.  Walklev  in  The  Morning  Leader. 

'  The  wonderful  power  of  observation,  the  close  analysis  and  the  really 
brilliant  writing  revealed  in  parts  of  this  volume  .  .  .  .  "  George  Egerton  ' 
would  seem  to  be  well  equipped  for  the  task.' — Cork  Examiner. 

'  Readers  who  have  a  leaning  to  psychological  fiction,  and  who  revel  in 
such  studies  of  character  as  George  Meredith's  "  Diana  of  the  Crossways" 
will  find  much  to  interest  them  in  these  clever  stories.' — Western  Daily 
Press. 

'  There  is  no  escape  from  the  fact  that  it  is  vividly  interesting. ' — The 
Christian  World. 

'  With  all  her  realism  there  is  a  refinement  and  a  pathos  and  a  brilliance 
of  style  that  lift  the  book  into  a  region  altogether  removed  from  the  merely 
sensational  or  the  merely  repulsive.  It  is  a  book  that  one  might  read  wito 
a  pencil  in  his  band,  for  it  is  studded  with  many  fine,  vivid  passages.' — 
Weekly  Scotsman. 

'  She  has  many  fine  qualities.  Her  work  throbs  with  temperament,  and 
here  and  there  we  come  upon  touches  that  linger  in  the  memory  as  of  things 
felt  and  seen,  not  read  of.' — Daily  News. 

'  Mrs.  Grundy,  to  whom  they  would  be  salutary,  will  not  be  induced  to 
read  either  "  Keynotes"  or  "Discords." — Westminster  Gazette. 

'  What  an  absorbing,  wonderful  book  it  is  :  How  absolutely  sincere,  and 
how  finely  wrong !  George  Egerton  may  be  what  the  indefatigable  ^Ir. 
Zangwill  calls  a  one-I'd  person,  but  she  is  a  literary  artist  of  exceptional 
endowment — probably  a  genius.' — Woman. 


THE  KEYNOTES  SERIES 


'  She  has  given,  times  without  number,  examples  of  her  ripening  powers 
that  astonish  us.  Her  themes  astound  ;  her  audacity  is  tremendous,  la 
the  many  great  passages  an  advance  is  proved  that  is  little  short  of  amaz- 
ing.'— Literary  IV or  Id. 

'  Interesting  and  skilfully  written.' — Sunday  Times. 

'A  series  of  undoubtedly  clever  stories,  told  with  a  poetic  dreaminess 
which  softens  the  rugged  truths  of  which  they  treat.  Mothers  might  benefit 
themselves  and  convey  help  to  young  girls  who  are  about  to  be  married  by 
the  perusal  of  its  pages.' — Liverpool  Mercury. 

'  They  are  the  work  of  an  author  of  considerable  power,  not  to  say  genius. 
— Scotsman. 

'  The  book  is  true  to  human  nature,  for  the  author  has  genius,  and,  let  us 
add,  has  heart.  It  is  representative ;  it  is,  in  the  hackneyed  phrase,  a 
human  document.' — Speaker. 

'  It  is  another  note  in  the  great  chorus  of  revolt  ...  on  the  whole 
clearer,  more  eloquent,  and  braver  than  almost  any  I  have  yet  heard.' — 
T.  P.  ('  Book  of  the  Week '),  Weekly  Sun,  December  30. 

'  These  masterly  word-sketches.' — Daily  Telegraph. 

'Were  it  possible  to  have  my  favourite  sketches  and  stories  from  both 
volumes  ("  Keynotes  "  and  "Discords")  bound  together  in  one,  I  should 
look  upon  myself  as  a  very  fortunate  traveller ;  one  who  had  great  pleasure, 
if  not  exactly  happiness,  within  her  reach.' — Lady's  Pictorial. 

'  But  in  all  this  there  is  a  rugged  grandeur  of  style,  a  keen  analysis  of 
motive,  and  a  deepness  of  pathos  that  stamp  George  Egerton  as  one  of  the 
greatest  women  writers  of  the  day.' — Boston  Traveller,  U.S.A. 

'The  story  of  the  child,  of  the  girl,  and  of  the  woman  is  told,  and  told 
by  one  to  whom  the  mysteries  of  the  life  of  each  are  familiarly  known.  In 
their  very  truth,  as  the  writer  has  so  subtly  analysed  her  triple  characters, 
they  sadden  one  to  think  that  such  things  must  be  ;  yet  as  they  are  real, 
they  are  bound  to  be  disclosed  by  somebody,  and  in  due  time.' — Boston. 
Courier,  U.S.A. 


Ninth  Edition  Just  ready. 

THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID.  By  Grant  Allen.  With 
Title-page  and  Cover  Design  by  Aubrey  Beardsley. 
Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d.  net. 

'There  is  not  a  sensual  thought  or  suggestion  throughout  the  whole 
volume.  Though  I  dislike  and  disbelieve  in  his  gospel,  I  thoroughly 
respect  Mr.  Grant  Allen  for  having  stated  it  so  honourably  and  so  bravely.' 
— Academy. 

'  Even  its  bitterest  enemies  must  surely  feel  some  thrill  of  admiration  for 
its  courage.  It  is,  once  more,  one  philosopher  against  the  world.  Not  in 
our  day,  perhaps,  can  it  be  decided  which  is  right,  Mr.  Grant  Allen,  or  the 
world.  Perhaps  our  children's  children  will  some  day  be  canonising  Mr. 
Grant  Allen  for  the  very  book  for  which  to-day  he  stands  a  much  greater 
chance  of  being  stoned,  and  happy  lovers  of  the  new  era  bless  the  name  of 
the  man  who,  almost  single-handed,  fought  the  battle  of  Free  Love. 
Time  alone  can  say.  .  .  .  None  but  the  most  foolish  or  malignant  readei 
of '  The  Woman  Who  Did '  can  fail  to  recognise  the  noble  purpose  which 
animates  its  pages.  .  .  .  Label  it  as  one  will,  it  remains  a  clever,  stimu- 
lating book.  A  real  enthusiasm  for  humanity  blazes  through  every  page 
of  this,  in  many  ways,  remarkable  and  significant  little  book.' — Sketch. 

'The  book  is  interesting,  as  embodying  the  carefully  thought-ou*' 
theories  of  so  distinguished  a  writer.' — Literary  World. 


THE  KEYNOTES  SERIES 


'  Mr.  Grant  Allen  has  undoubtedly  produced  an  epoch-making  book,  and 
one  which  will  be  a  living  voice  when  most  of  the  novels  of  this  generation 
have  passed  away  into  silence.  It  b  epoch-making  in  the  sense  that 
"  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  was ; — the  literary  merits  of  that  work  were  by  no 
means  great,  but  yet  it  rang  like  a  tocsin  through  the  land,  arousing  mankind 
to  a  sense  of  the  slavery  under  which  a  large  portion  of  humanity  suffered.' 
— HuTHanitarian. 

'  Interesting,  and  even  absorbing.' — Weekly  Sun. 

'  His  sincerity  is  undeniable.  And  in  the  mouth  of  Herminia  are  some 
very  noble  and  eloquent  passages  upon  the  wrongs  of  our  marriage  sys- 
tem.'—Pali  Mall  Gazette. 

'  A  tale  of  purity  and  innocence  unparalleled  since  the  "  Garden  of 
Eden  "  or  "  Paul  and  Virginia." ' — Daily  Express. 

'A  remarkable  and  powerful  story.  It  increases  our  respect  for  Mr. 
Allen's  ability,  nor  do  we  feel  inclined  to  join  in  throwing  stones  at  him  as 
a  perverter  of  our  morals  and  our  social  institutions.  However  widely  we 
may  differ  from  Mr.  Allen's  views  on  many  important  questions,  we  are 
botmd  to  recognise  his  sincerity,  and  to  respect  him  accordingly. ' — Speaker. 

'  The  story  is  as  remarkable_  forits  art  as  its  daring,  and  well  deserves  a 
place  in  the  remarkable  series  in  which  it  has  been  published.' — TAe 
Scotsman. 

'  Herminia  is  a  rare  and  fine  creatture.' — Daily  Chronicle. 

*  An  artist  in  words  and  a  writer  of  deep  feeling  has  lavished  bis  best 
powers  in  the  production  of  "The  Woman  Who  Did."  The  story  is 
charmingly  told.  Delineated  with  a  delicacy  and  strength  of  touch  that 
cannot  but  delight  the  most  fastidious  reader.  Mr.  Grant  Allen  draws  a 
picture  of  a  sweet  and  pure  and  beautiful  woman.  The  book  is  very 
beautiful  and  very  sad.' — Liverpool  Mercury. 

'  The  book  (for  it  is  well  written  and  clever)  ought  to  be  the  last  note  in 
the  chorus  of  revolt.  For  it  proves  to  demonstration  the  futility  of  the 
attempt. ' — Sun. 

'  We  cannot  too  highly  commend  the  conspicuous  and  transparent  purity 
of  the  handling.' — Public  Opinion. 

'  He  conclusively  shows  that  if  the  marriage  laws  need  revision,  yet  the 
sweetness  and  seemliness  of  home,  thedignity  of  woman  as  mother  or  as 
man's  helpmeet,  are  rooted  in  the  sanctity  of  wedlock.' — Daily  News. 

'  Mr.  Grant  Allen  deserves  thanks  for  treating  with  such  delicacy  a 
problem  which  stands  in  such  pressing  need  of  solution  as  the  reform  of 
our  siern  marriage  laws. ' — £c/u>. 

'  Its  merits  are  large  and  its  interest  profound.' — Weekly  Scotsmeut, 

'  It  may  not  merit  praise,  but  it  merits  reading.' — Saturday  Review, 


Just  published. 

PRINCE  ZALESKI.     By  M.  P.   Shiel.     With  Title-page 
by  Aubrey  Beardsley.     Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d.  net. 

'Mr.  M.  P.  Shiel  has  in  this  volume  produced  something  which  is 
always  rare,  and  which  is  every  year  becoming  a  greater  rarity — a  work 
of  literary  invention  characterised  by  substantial  novelty.  We  have 
I'oe's  analysis  and  Poe's  glamour,  but  they  are  no  longer  distinct ;  they 
are  combined  in  a  new  synthesis  which  stamps  a  new  imaginative  impres- 
sion. A  finely  wrought  structure  in  which  no  single  line  impairs  the 
symmetry  and  proportion.  One  of  the  most  boldly-planned  and  strik- 
ingly-executed stories  of  its  kind  which  has  appeareci  for  many  a  long 


THE  KEYNOTES  SERIES 


day.  We  believe  there  is  nothing  in  "Prince  Zaleski"  which  that  great 
inventor  and  masterly  manipulator  of  the  spoils  of  invention  (Poe)  would 
have  disdained  to  father.' — Daily  Chronicle. 

'  Should  obtain  popularity.  Written  in  an  easy  and  clear  style.  The 
author  shows  an  amount  of  ingenuity  and  capacity  for  plot  considerably 
above  the  average.  The  reader  will  find  it  difficult  to  put  the  book  down 
before  he  has  satisfied  his  curiosity  to  the  last  page.' — Weekly  Sun. 

'The  Prince  was  a  Sherlock  Holmes,  with  this  difference:  that  while 
yielding  nothing  to  Conan  Doyle's  hero  in  mere  intellectual  agility,  he 
had  that  imaginative  insight  which  makes  poets  more  frequently  than 
detectives.  Sherlock  Holmes  was  a  clever  but  essentially  commonplace 
man.  Prince  Zaleski  was  a  great  man,  simply.  Enthralling  .  .  .  once 
begun  they  insist  on  being  finished.  Broadly  and  philosophically  con- 
ceived, and  put  together  with  rare  narrative  skill,  and  feeling  for  effect.' 
— Woman. 

'  There  is  a  strange,  fantastic  ingenuity  in  all  the  stories,  while  a  strong 
dash  of  mysticism  gives  them  a  peculiar  flavour  that  differentiates  them 
from  the  ordinary  detective  story.  They  are  clever  and  curious,  and  will 
appeal  to  all  lovers  of  the  transcendental  and  improbable.' — The  Scotsman. 

'  Thoroughly  entertaining,  and  the  chief  figure  is  undeniably  pic- 
turesque.'— Yorkshire  Post. 

'  An  abundance  of  ingenuity  and  quaint  out-of-the-way  learning  mark 
the  three  stories  contained  in  this  volume.' — Liverpool  Mercury. 

'  He  has  imparted  to  the  three  tales  in  this  volume  something  of  that 
atmosphere  of  eerie  fantasy  which  Poe  knew  how  to  conjure,  proceeding 
by  the  analysis  of  a  baffling  intricacy  of  detail  to  an  unforeseen  conclusion. 
The  themes  and  their  treatment  are  alike  highly  imaginative.' — Daily 
News. 

'  Manifestly  written  by  one  of  Poe's  true  disciples.  His  analytical  skill 
is  not  that  of  the  detective,  even  of  so  brilliant  a  detective  as  Mr.  Sherlock 
Holmes.  Probably  his  exploits  will  interest  the  public  far  less  than  did 
those  of  Mr.  Doyle's  famous  character ;  but  the  select  few,  who  can 
appreciate  delicate  work,  will  delight  in  them  exceedingly.' — Speaker. 

'Truth  to  tell  we  like  our  Sherlock  better  in  his  new  dress.  The 
book  will  please  those  who  love  a  good  old-fashioned  riddle,  and  a  good 
new-fangled  answer.' — National  Observer. 

'  Has  genuine  literary  merit,  and  possesses  entrancing  interest.  A  kind 
of  Sherlock  Holmes,  though  of  a  far  more  finished  type  than  Mr.  Conan 
Doyle's  famous  creation.  The  remarkable  ingenuity  of  Mr.  Shiel — worthy 
of  Edgar  Allen  Poe  at  his  best — in  tracing  out  the  mystery  surrounding 
the  death  of  Lord  Pharanx,  the  Stone  of  the  Edmundsbury  Monks,  and  the 
Suicide  Society,  constitutes  a  veritable  tour  de  force.  We  have  nothing 
but  praise  for  diis  extraordinarily  clever  and  interesting  volume.' — White- 
hall Review. 

'Worked  out  very  ingeniously,  and  we  are  thoroughly  impressed  by  the 
Prince's  mental  powers.' — Sunday  Times. 

'A  clever,  extravagant,  and  lurid  little  book.'— Westminster  Gazette. 


List  of  Books 


in 


Relies    Jettres 


iSgs 


ALL   BOOKS   IN  THIS  CATALOGUE 
ARE    PUBLISHED   AT  NET  PRICES 


Tele^aphic  Address — 
'  Bodleian,  London  ' 


i895. 

List  of  Books 

IN 

BELLES  LETTRES 

{Including  some  Transfers) 

Published  by  John  Lane 

VIGO    STREET,    LONDON,    W. 

N.B. — The  Authors  and  Publisher  reserve  the  right  of  reprinting 
any  book  in  this  list  if  a  new  edition  is  called  for,  except  in  cases 
where  a  stipulation  has  been  madt  to  the  contrary,  and  of  printing 
a  separate  edition  of  any  of  the  books  for  America  irrespective  of  the 
numbers  to  which  the  English  editions  are  limited.  The  numbers 
mentioned  do  not  include  copies  sent  to  the  public  libraries,  nor  those 
sent  for  review. 

Most  of  the  books  are  published  simultaneously  in  England  and 
America,  and  in  many  instances  the  names  of  the  American 
Publishers  are  appended. 


ADAMS  (FRANCIS). 

Essays  in  Modernity.    Crown  8vo.    $s.  net.    [Shortly. 
Chicago :  Stone  &  Kimball. 

A  Child  of  the  Age.    (See  Keynotes  Series.) 

ALLEN  (GRANT). 

The  Lower  Slopes:  A  Volume  of  Verse.     With  Title- 
page  and  Cover  Design  by  J.   Illingworth  Kay. 
600  copies.     Crown  8vo.     5s.  net. 
Chicago  :  Stone  &  Kimball. 
The  Woman  Who  Did.     (5^«  Keynotes  Series.  ) 


THE  PUBLICATIONS  OF  JOHN  LANE 


BEARDSLEY  (AUBREY). 

The  Story  of  Venus  and  Tannhauskr,  in  which  is  set 
forth  an  exact  account  of  the  Manner  of  State  held  by 
Madam  Venus,  Goddess  and  Meretrix,  under  the 
famous  Horselberg,  and  containing  the  adventures  of 
Tannhauser  in  that  place,  his  repentance,  his  jour- 
neying to  Rome,  and  return  to  the  loving  mountain. 
By  Aubrey  Beardsley.  With  20  full-page  illus- 
trations, numerous  ornaments,  and  a  cover  from  the 
same  hand.    Sq.  l6mo.    I0s.6d.net.    [In preparation. 

BEDDOES  (T.  L.). 

See  GossE  (Edmund). 

BEECHING  (Rev.  H.  C). 

In  a  Garden:  Poems.     "With  Title-page  designed  by 
Roger  Fry.    Crown  8vo.    5s.  net. 
New  York  :  Macmillan  &  Co. 

BENSON  (ARTHUR  CHRISTOPHER). 
Lyrics.     Fcap.  8vo.,  buckram.     5s.  net. 
New  York :  Macmillan  &  Co. 

BROTHERTON  (MARY). 

Rosemary  for  Remembrance.  With  Title-page  and 
Cover  Design  by  Walter  West.  Fcap.Svo.  3s.6d.net. 

CAMPBELL  (GERALD). 

The  Joneses  and  the  Asterisks.  With  6  Illustra- 
tions and  a  Title-page  by  F.  H.  Townsend.  Fcap. 
8vo.     3s.  6d.  net.  \In  preparation. 

CASTLE  (Mrs.  EGERTON). 

My  Little  Lady  Anne  :  A  Romance.  Sq.  i6mo. 
2s.  6d.  net.  \In  preparation. 

CASTLE  (EGERTON). 

See  Stevenson  (Robert  Louis). 

CROSS  (VICTORIA). 

Consummation  :  A  Novel.     Crown  8vo.     4s.  6d.  net. 

[7«  preparation. 
DALMON  (C.  W.). 

Song  Favours.  With  a  specially-designed  Title-page. 
Sq.  i6mo.     4s.  6d.  net.  [/« preparation. 


THE  PUBLICATIONS  OF 


D'ARCY  (ELLA). 

Monochromes.    {See  Keynotes  Series.) 

DAVIDSON  (JOHN). 

Plays  :  An  Unhistorical  Pastoral ;  A  Romantic  Farce  ; 
Bruce,  a  Chronicle  Play ;  Smith,  a  Tragic  Farce  ; 
Scaramouch  in  Naxos,  a  Pantomime,  with  a  Frontis- 
piece and  Cover  Design  by  Aubrey  Beardsley. 
Printed  at  the  Ballantyne  Press.  500  copies.  Small 
4to.     7s.  6d.  net. 

Chicago  :  Stone  &  Kimball. 
Fleet  Street  Eclogues.     Fcap.   8vo,  buckram.     5s. 
net.  [  Out  of  Print  at  present. 

A  Random  Itinerary  and  a  Ballad.    With  a  Fron- 
tispiece and  Title-page  by  Laurence  Housman. 
600  copies.     Fcap.  8vo,  Irish  Linen.     5s.  net. 
Boston  :  Copeland  &  Day. 
Ballads   and  Songs.      With  a  Title-page  and  Cover 
Design  by  Walter  West.     Third  Edition.    Fcap. 
8vo,  buckram.     5s.  net. 
Boston  :  Copeland  &  Day. 

DAWE  (W.  CARLTON). 

Yellow  and  White.    (See  Keynotes  Series.) 

DE  TABLEY  (LORD). 

Poems,  Dramatic  and  Lyrical.  By  John  Leicester 
Warren  (Lord  De  Tabley).  Illustrations  and  Cover 
Design  by  C.  S.  RiCKETTS.  Second  Edition. 
Crown  8vo.     7s.  6d.  net. 

New  York  :  Macmillan  &  Co. 
Poems,  Dramatic  and  Lyrical.    Second  Series,  uni- 
form in  binding  with  the  former  volume.     Crown  8vo. 
5s.  net. 
New  York  :  Macmillan  &  Co. 

DIX  (GERTRUDE). 

The  Girl  from  the  Farm.    {See  Keynotes  Series.) 

DOSTOIEVSKY  (F.). 

See  Keynotes  Series,  Vol.  iii. 


JOHN  LANK  S 

ECHEGARAY  gOSE). 

See  Lynch  (Hannah). 
EGERTON  (GEORGE). 

Keynotes.    {See  Keynotes  Series.) 
Discords.     (5><  Keynotes  Series.) 
Young  Ofeg's  Ditties.   A  translation  from  the  Swedish 
of  Ola  Hansson.     Crown  8vo.     3s.  6d.  net. 
Boston :  Roberts  Bros. 

FARR  (FLORENCE). 

The  Dancing  Fadn.    {See  Keynotes  Series.) 

FLETCHER  (J.  S.). 

The  Wonderful  Wapentake.    By  'A  Son  of  the 
Soil.'     With   18  full-page   Illustrations  by   J.   A. 
Symington.    Crown  Svo.     53.  6d.  net. 
Chicago  :  A.  C,  M'Clurg  &  Co. 
GALE  (NORMAN). 

Orchard  Songs.     With  Title-page  and  Cover  Design 
by  J.  Illingworth  Kay.     Fcap.  Svo,  Irish  Linen. 
5s.  net. 
Also  a   Special  Edition  limited  in  number  on  hand-made  paper 
bonnd  in  English  vellnm.    £1,  is.  net. 
New  York  :  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 

GARNETT  (RICHARD). 

Poems.      With  Title-page  by  J.    Illingworth  Kay. 
350  copies.     Crown  8vo.     5s.  net. 
Boston :  Copeland  &  Day. 
Dante,  Petrarch,  Camoens,  cxxiv  Sonnets,  rendere ' 
in  English.     Crown  Svo.     5s.  net.      [In  preparation. 

GEARY  (NEVILL). 

A  Lawyer's  Wife:  A  Novel.     Crown  Svo.     4s.  6d. 
net.  [In  preparation. 

GOSSE  (EDMUND). 

The  Letters  of  Thomas  Lovell  Beddobs.     Now 
first  edited.     Pott  Svo.     5s.  net. 
Also  as  copies  large  paper.     las.  6d.  neU 
New  York  :  Macmillan  &  Co. 


THE  PUBLICATIONS  OF 


GRAHAME  (KENNETH). 

Pagan   Papers  :    A  Volume   of  Essays.       With  Title- 
page  by  Aubrey  Beardsley.     Fcap.  8vo.     5s.  net. 
Chicago  :  Stone  &  Kimball. 

The  Golden  Age.     Crown  8vo.     3s.  6d.  net. 

Chicago  :  Stone  &  Kimball.  [/«  preparation. 

GREENE  (G.  A.). 

Italian  Lyrists  of  To-day.  Translations  in  the 
original  metres  from  about  thirty-five  living  Italian 
poets,  with  bibliographical  and  biographical  notes. 
Crown  8vo.     5s.  net. 

New  York  :  Macmillan  &  Co. 

GREENWOOD  (FREDERICK). 

Imagination  in  Dreams.     Crown  8vo.     5s.  net. 
New  York  :  Macmillan  &  Co. 

HAKE  (T.  GORDON). 

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Ashcroft  Noble,  B.  Paul  Neuman,  Evelyn  Sharp, 
W.  A.  Mackenzie,  Mrs.  Ernest  Leverson,  Richard 
Garnett,  Maurice  Baring,  Norman  Gale,  Anatole 
France,  and  John  Davidson. 

The  Art  Contributions  by  E.  A.  Walton,  R.  Anning  Bell, 
Alfred  Thornton,  F.  G.  Cotman,  P.  Wilson  Steer, 
A.  S.  Hartrick,  Robert  Halls,  Walter  Sickert, 
Constantin  Guys,  and  Aubrey  Beardsley. 

Prospectuses  Post  Free  on  Application. 

LONDON :  JOHN  LANE 
BOSTON  :  COPELAND  &  DAY 


UC^OI'-i.Tr;-;:^' 


"■"NAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A      000  062  144 


